whippledaddy

If you would like to contact me about Ryan, here is my phone number 517-774-4319. Thank you all for your condolences and support. Patty Ryan (Whippledaddy's wife)

I'd been fat since I was nine years old, and I had gotten pretty much used to it. Not happy about it, but resigned, and yes, a little comfortable. There is a payoff to the fatness. For each of us it is different. For me it was that the fat insulated me from social interaction. I didnt' have to go to school functions like mixers, or the prom. Since no girls wanted to go out with me I didn't have to worry about that either. I even asked some out to appease my friends and my Mother, who couldn't ever bring herself to believe I wasn't the most handsome boy since Ricky Nelson. My fat saved me then, 'cause no one ever accepted. Even though I was always fat, I was always physically active, and sports minded. I was on the school wrestling team, and raced motorcycles pro/am. I"ve always had a physical job. Chef. Work work work. Twelve and fourteen hour days on your feet, moving sweating, lifting. Then a great job fell in my lap. I became a supervisor in food service in a prison. State employed. No physical exertion. A tough day is when no one woke me up to take my break. LOL. I gained forty four pounds almost instantly. All that activity was keeping me from getting fatter. When the activity stopped, the storage of calories started. Nothing fit. The hot weather came and it was pure torture. Then a prisoner grieved me (they get to write grievances, and they are heard, and action can be taken against the prison employee. Yes, I know it sucks. But it is there, and we must deal with it), This grievance said that the reason they were being fed small portions was because I was eating up all the stock. Strangely enough that was my wake up call. Now they get fed the portions they do because a nutritional department sets the portions. My gormandizing had no effect on that. That night I looked in a full length mirror for the first time in years. I saw a wasted body, stretched to the bursting point by an addiction to chewing and swallowing food. I saw humorless eyes staring back at me, and I saw a face dulled and wrinkled by care and self loathing. I saw the chances not taken, the joys not shared. The girls not kissed. I saw the deep nights without friendship, the endless days spent sweating in the shade. I saw emotions being replaced by a compulsion to eat, I saw food replacing my family and friends. I saw a wasted life. And I didn't like it. And there was no one to blame, but the fat jerk staring back at me. I hated him, and I wanted him to go away. He had imprisoned me. The real me. The me that lives inside the adipose penitentiary of my addicted soul. Some where inside, behind those piggish, greedy eyes; beneath that squalid, white, mottled flesh; just below those pendulous chins; somewhere in there was the real me. And he was dying. It was him or me. At that moment I chose......me. Life. I chose to change, to fight until the end. I chose to fight that demon who drove me to eat everything. Nothing left on the plate. No leftovers in my life. The next day I made that call. And the first thing I thought as I dialed that phone was...."I'm not doing this to LOSE anything. I'm doing it to GAIN. To gain a life. To gain a life worth living. Live, love and be well. Ryan.

So darkness has fallen and my wife has fallen asleep while watching tivoed reruns of old sitcoms. Yet sleep eludes me. I sit up and stare at this bright eyed friend, and read the posts of those with whom I share so much. And I come across your post, like a beacon in the night. Like a point of light that offers hope and comfort, I drift toward it. I've got to go back to my surgeon after a long absence, and I have plateaued for quite a while. I, too, wish I could crash diet, lose twenty pounds and then see him. It's not that easy. I have a band that still holds me back, but I have this addiction. Addiction is like having a tiny person on your shoulder whispering in your ear. Demanding. Pushing. Smarmy little bastard. I'd reach up and squash him, but he's as real as the air, and as solid as a dream. Good luck. It will be okay. Your thirty pounds will come, or you will realize that you are beautiful just the way you are. One or the other. I need to lose another 58. Need? Want? Well, it's my goal. And it's a good goal. You'll do fine. Just fine. See the surgeon, if he doesn't understand well....he's in good company, because so few really do understand, eh?

We'll try this pic, see if I downsized it enough. Looking through his pics was both a thing of sadness and a thing of joy. I had the priviledge of smiling through my tears. Time goes by. Life goes on. The sun rises and sets. Still my thoughts turn to my wordless friend and the volumes he spoke to me. I miss him, but the pain is the dull ache of loss, not the sharp pang it once was. Still I think sometimes I see him out of the corner of my eye. And when we mention his name to our other dog, Abby the Half Pug/Half Terrier, she looks up at a corner of our living room ceiling. I find this disquieting, and somehow comforting. I know it is but my grief working its way through me. And so the days continue. Life has many tasks that must be met. And through the sun of each new day we keep close our departed friend with the shadow of a memory. So here is his picture. He was just a dog to anyone but us. And that's exactly how it should be. His life changed ours forever, and that, too, is exactly as it should be.

I've gotta resize a pic to post it. Thanks. It'll take a day or two, kinda busy getting ready for yet another surger for Patty, 300 miles away.

I'm not just happy....I'm thankful. What a wonderful tool this is. But, just like any tool it must be USED and it takes CONCENTRATION. Eat too much, too fast, and BAM!. Just like a hammer. Lose your concentration and BAM! a very sore thumb. So should I throw away my hammer? Silly. I'm down more than a hundred pounds. IF it all stopped right now I'd still be happy. It's wonderful. Now, here's something I wrote about a friend of mine. Read it and you'll know the real reason I'm happy about my band, and you'll know how I feel about UNREASONABLE worrying about complications. Look into it, yes, heed warnings, yes. Let hearing about the complications of others make your decision for you? NO. Kent: I saw an old friend today................but he didn't see me. He didn't greet me, or shake my hand, or grace my ears with his booming laugh. He couldn't. He couldn't get out of the casket he lay in. He was a big man, and it was a big casket. You see he loved to hunt, and camp, and fish, and....eat. His wife was out the other day, and when she got home, Kent was no longer in. I had known him for many years. Since Patty and I met some seventeen years ago. He always had a good word, and a smile, and a merry twinkle in his eye. His beard went white while his hair was still dark, and his laugh was so joyful, so infectious that it made Santa seem depressed by comparison. And, oh yes. He had the kindest eyes I've ever seen. When I went to my first meeting for the Lap Band Kent was there. He was just sixty years old and he was being refused the surgery because Dr. Cudjoe doesn't do them on folks over sixty. But Kent was the kind of guy who didn't fit the actuarial charts. After he met with the good Doctor it was settled.....if the insurance would cover it. He was scheduled for the surgery on three occasions, and each time the insurance fell through. He had enough money to cover the $40,000.00 that Cudjoe wanted but Kent's wife wouldn't let him rob their nest egg. So now he resides in an oversize wooden box, festooned with satin, and trimmed in death. To the insurance company, and even his wife it seems, he wasn't worth it. Yet he was shown three nights in a row. And each time it was an hour and a half wait in line to pay respects. Three days of people lined up out the door and down the block. Not worth it? How many lives like mine and Patty's were darkened by his passing? He had children who had just given him grandchildren. He had friends. Yet someone, somewhere, decided what the fat man was worth. And, yes, that angers me. But something angers me even more. Each day I read about fears on other WLS sites. Fear of complication. Sad and fearful laments "What if something goes wrong? What if I erode, what if I reject, what if I get infected?" The complications of Weight Loss Surgery. Ask Kent about the complications of NOT getting weight loss surgery. Risky? Yep, it's risky. So is apnea, diabetes, stroke, hypertension, heart attack. They seem risky too. So, you're thinking about WLS? And you're worried that something bad MIGHT happen? Well it might. BUT.........if you don't do it.......Something bad WILL happen. And I wonder something else. Could all the worry over complications be your addiction trying to survive? Could it be a subconscious stalling tactic? A tricky form of denial? I beg anyone who is wavering to think of Kent. He had no doubts. He was ready to forge ahead. He knew the risks, and he knew that SOME chance is still better than NO chance. If you have this tool at your disposal why continue to plod slowly but surely up Death's walk and to His doorstep? Turn aside, and take a chance to live. To put life in your years. Fear is the enemy. Love, Ryan.

If you are what you eat, how can you be who you wanna be unless you eat what you wanna eat?

I have been discriminated against in each of these ways, and in other ways. Methods of discrimination that seem kind, but are really painful jabs at a sensitive ego. How many times have I been told that "You're not fat, look at that guy, now HE'S fat" If I'm not fat, why point out the person who is the epitome of fat? How many times have I heard "You're not fat. And besides you carry it well." Carry what well? Plus sizes $7.00 more "Wear stripes, they're slimming." No, diet and exercise is slimming. Now I look like a fat convict. And, in some subconscious way wasn't "Clean your plate" the ultimate discrimination? Why not say "Hmmmmm, you don't seem addicted to anything, why not try food?" And what about the jokes your "friends" tell you? What about those well meaning morons who say "Have you ever thought of going on a diet?" Why no, I haven't. Have you ever thought? Then there's the biggest "fat bigot" of them all. Me. Bigoted against me. Descriminating against myself. Telling myself those horrible lies. "She won't want to go out with you, you're too fat". Don't go to the theatre, the seats are too small." "Don't go to that restaurant, it's tables, not booths, so they'll all be staring at the fat guy, eating." There are a million stings in the hive of prejudice. We wield the sharpest ourselves. I have hated the man in the mirror over the years. He's a weakling who can't stop eating. Every eye sees us. Every heart judges. But our eyes are harder, our judgement harsher, our strikes go deeper than any other. Let them ridicule me who will. They are second class to me. I can hate me better than any of them. Yes, the stranger casts a sideward glance. The people murmur to each other when I walk by. But, truth be told, I am the real Enemy. Even down a hundred pounds I still hear the voices of derision. Most of them are heard with my soul and not my ears.

I used to listen to her years ago. Too many horribly prejudiced fat comments made me turn the radio off. If she made the same comments about RACE as she does about FAT she'd be pushing french fries at a drive through window instead of marketing hate to the masses.

I don't know what the big deal about boobs are either. But...................all I did was read the title......................and here I am. Sheesh.

These are a little older (three or four years) and just a bit obscure but I found them fascinating: Peace Like a River (nope don't remember the author, and I give 'em away as soon as I read 'em) The Lovely Bones (don't remember this author either, sheesh.) Excellent surprising little stories about love. Familial love and the borders it breaks down.

As I believe I posted last year I tend to make resolutions that are easily kept. This does serve a purpose, by keeping my resolutions I have higher self esteem. Higher self esteem makes all my live issues easier to deal with. Here are some of my past resolutions: Never run through the car wash naked and ask for the hot wax. (Years have gone by and I haven't even been tempted to break this one) Never eat a Jeep. (Never broken this one either) And this year I resolve to: Never walk up to Mike Tyson and tell him he's a Wussy. (Bet I keep it)

I've lost 105 lbs in a little over a year. But I have no way of measuring the life I have gained. It's not about losing. It's about gaining. I did have fantastic insurance, and I did get it here in the good old USA. I'd do it again. And again. I've never been this successful on any diet. I'd do it again. Did I already say that? I'd rather roll naked in a pile of fish hooks than give up my band. How's that?

I wake up each day without a sleep apnea headache. And I have dropped the lethargy of apnea, too. I get things done. I have an apron of skin. It's very ugly. It sweats. And chafes. Ewwwwww. I could have my hanging belly skin tatooed in a plaid and people would think I was wearing a kilt! Yuck. I have to eat slowly now. This means I can converse. What a joy! Talking with people during a meal! Amazing! I no longer have to pray for my immortal soul before I attempt a flight of stairs. In fact I like 'em now, they're faster. Sometimes I forget that I'm over a hundred pounds down. Then I take too big of a bite and remember. Ouch. My bottle of diabetes pills sets where it always has. Dust on it now. No, don't dust it. I like it that way. Did you know that the car seat can move FORWARD? Astonishing. For the first time in my life I must deal with clothes that are too big. Wow! Bad side? I can't eat a small third world country any more. That can be bad, because, you see, food is my drug. Actually eating is my drug. The food doesn't matter. I have bad bouts of nerves. When night has fallen, and I have time to review the stresses of my life then I want to eat. Graze. Open the refridgerator and dive in, like a man on a mission. That's hard. I must, instead, deal with my feelings, my issues. Tough. But getting easier.

Was he right about the hard week?