bfrancis

This is one blog article I started to write before I went into hospital. I decided to postpone it until afterwards, because I didn't want my final cyber-words to be ones of negativity if things did go wrong. The surgery was a success and now I feel able to voice my thoughts on the subject that has been very much a part of my life since I can remember. Belly bashers! Growing up in a relatively privileged way, my early years of verbal abuse were pretty much limited to the playground, as most are. My nickname at school for a while was Ben the Bubble. Pretty lame and innocuous really, but when delivered with spite by all and sundry at an all boys school, it caused quite a large amount of distress. To be honest, my self-awareness was so low in those days, they could have called me "bathroom tile" and it would have hurt as much. It was simply the hateful delivery that always got me. Going home from school to be comforted was always the option I chose to get through...despite my size (upwards and outwards) I was quite a sensitive soul, so fighting for my pride was never an option. "Ben the Bubble?" questioned my mother. "Bubbles are lovely, bubbles come from champagne!". It wasn't until years later, when becoming a lover of all things alcoholic, that I really understood or appreciated that sentiment. As I reached sexual awareness that the comments and constant digs really started to kick in. I know, typical man! But, I imagine the same goes for woman-kind. Adolescence was the time that I really started to care what people thought of me physically and when my emotions where truly being developed; when they were at their most fragile. And, with the way of the world, this is when people's remarks started to get more vicious. Nice timing. As is the case with most people who feel the need to bully others across the world, the people who bothered me were never ones you would consider intelligent. In fact, it is fair to say that the people who abused the hardest were the most stupid. I guess it is a titanic lack of social unawareness and an even greater inferiority complex that urged them on. If they could make me more upset about myself than they were about themselves, that would mean (in the great scheme of things) they were happier. Unfortunately, what bullies lack in brain power, they have in numbers and venom. The easiest thing for me to cope with was the aforementioned intellectual prowess in the delivery of their scorn. I mean, it doesn't take Einstein to come up with "fat bastard" or "tubby c**t". In fact, I haven't ever heard a jibe directed at me that has ever made me deliver a mental score card of over two out of a hundred. There have been some pretty excellent jokes created on the subject in film and television but, in the necessity of a speedy jibe, the aggressors tend to opt for the more direct and easy to remember ones. Generally those under three syllables. I'm not entirely sure why overweight people are picked on so much. Perhaps we make bigger targets? Perhaps we are seen to be too lazy to chase after someone who upsets us? Certainly too greedy to put down our chicken wings to throw a punch. I guess it is the blot we cause on the wonderful society we live in. All fat people, by their very nature, are obviously so carefree about their bodies that they couldn't possibly wash and therefore smell horribly of sweat and even worse. Of course - this is utter nonsense. The vast majority of the body odour I have ever encountered has emanated from "normal" sized people, who are so worried about what other people smell like, that they forget themselves. It seems that, in the real world, us lardites are fully aware that extra skin needs more attention and we cater for such - sometimes I even admit over compensating with a few more spoonfuls of cologne than most humans can stand. If not the smell - then it has to be grotesque way we ruin the vistas of an otherwise beautiful world. Stand me at a bar full of svelte supermodels and muscle men and the whole scene is ruined for everyone. People get up from their chairs and leave their favourite drinking hole throwing up because the sea of beauty has been tarnished with the sludge of a sphincterless whale. Shame on me. Oh no - wait, it can't be that. I seem to remember most bars I have frequented have been littered with some of the most repugnant abusive assholes, throwing amazingly quite and witty jibes about my size at me - I still stand astounded and amazed at the ingenuity of "blubbery twat". Simply put - these narrow minded Neanderthal people have such a poor view of themselves that they pick on people who the believe pose no threat to them and will roll with the punches like all us chubby funsters (to quote Ricky Gervais - a surprisingly fattist fatty). I won't say it's not my fault that I'm morbidly obese (actually - today I stepped out into the simply obese category - but as it would currently take a small lollipop to tip me over, I will stay on the bigger side for the purposes of this rant). I also won't also pretend that my life would have been totally amazing without the name calling and aggressive comments that have been hurled at me - no, that would be all too much of a lie. However, what I will say is that at the point that I realised how bad this all was for me, I was already there. My way to normal was blocked by the ties of this most frustrating condition. So very blocked, that I found it an physical and mental impossibility to change my ways permanently. I did try and I tried very hard. But I failed...and got heavier. So there I was - fat and not very proud. My will power alone just wasn't up to the job. Even if it meant that I had to spend my days living with the barrage of arrows that were thrown my way to make other more figure-fortunate people comfortable with their own lives. So, I developed quite a hatred for these people. I'm a human being with the normal human feelings most people have - including vengeance. I wish them all the pain that the delivered to me and to be dished back at them a hundred-fold. Being as I am, that is my nature and it's where I stand. Not entirely honourable I know - but this set of gurglings I have decided to throw together is designed to be a therapeutic release for me and it would be pointless of me to pretend to be an other-worldly saint who forgave everyone - for they knew not what they did. I sit and write this as a small punch back at them because I know most of them knew damn well what they did. I do wish to "let it go" with time - and maybe I will as I push myself further away from the firing line. It's probably healthier that way! Most of the people who read this blog are people in my position having decided to undergo weight loss surgery or are making that decision now. Most of the people reading this are simply reliving exactly what they have been through their entire lives. Most of the people that read this will be some of the most unassuming pleasant people around, because of how they have had to grow up under a tirade of readily accepted banter, designed to tear them apart and amuse or satisfy others. Most of the people that read this will also be aware, that they are reading this without the danger of bumping into a anti-fatty browsing through the pages. I mean, would they have really made it past the word "negativity" in the first sentence? Come on - it's five syllables long! Here endeth my negativity...amen. Originally posted at:

This is one blog article I started to write before I went into hospital. I decided to postpone it until afterwards, because I didn't want my final cyber-words to be ones of negativity if things did go wrong. The surgery was a success and now I feel able to voice my thoughts on the subject that has been very much a part of my life since I can remember. Belly bashers! Growing up in a relatively privileged way, my early years of verbal abuse were pretty much limited to the playground, as most are. My nickname at school for a while was Ben the Bubble. Pretty lame and innocuous really, but when delivered with spite by all and sundry at an all boys school, it caused quite a large amount of distress. To be honest, my self-awareness was so low in those days, they could have called me "bathroom tile" and it would have hurt as much. It was simply the hateful delivery that always got me. Going home from school to be comforted was always the option I chose to get through...despite my size (upwards and outwards) I was quite a sensitive soul, so fighting for my pride was never an option. "Ben the Bubble?" questioned my mother. "Bubbles are lovely, bubbles come from champagne!". It wasn't until years later, when becoming a lover of all things alcoholic, that I really understood or appreciated that sentiment. As I reached sexual awareness that the comments and constant digs really started to kick in. I know, typical man! But, I imagine the same goes for woman-kind. Adolescence was the time that I really started to care what people thought of me physically and when my emotions where truly being developed; when they were at their most fragile. And, with the way of the world, this is when people's remarks started to get more vicious. Nice timing. As is the case with most people who feel the need to bully others across the world, the people who bothered me were never ones you would consider intelligent. In fact, it is fair to say that the people who abused the hardest were the most stupid. I guess it is a titanic lack of social unawareness and an even greater inferiority complex that urged them on. If they could make me more upset about myself than they were about themselves, that would mean (in the great scheme of things) they were happier. Unfortunately, what bullies lack in brain power, they have in numbers and venom. The easiest thing for me to cope with was the aforementioned intellectual prowess in the delivery of their scorn. I mean, it doesn't take Einstein to come up with "fat bastard" or "tubby c**t". In fact, I haven't ever heard a jibe directed at me that has ever made me deliver a mental score card of over two out of a hundred. There have been some pretty excellent jokes created on the subject in film and television but, in the necessity of a speedy jibe, the aggressors tend to opt for the more direct and easy to remember ones. Generally those under three syllables. I'm not entirely sure why overweight people are picked on so much. Perhaps we make bigger targets? Perhaps we are seen to be too lazy to chase after someone who upsets us? Certainly too greedy to put down our chicken wings to throw a punch. I guess it is the blot we cause on the wonderful society we live in. All fat people, by their very nature, are obviously so carefree about their bodies that they couldn't possibly wash and therefore smell horribly of sweat and even worse. Of course - this is utter nonsense. The vast majority of the body odour I have ever encountered has emanated from "normal" sized people, who are so worried about what other people smell like, that they forget themselves. It seems that, in the real world, us lardites are fully aware that extra skin needs more attention and we cater for such - sometimes I even admit over compensating with a few more spoonfuls of cologne than most humans can stand. If not the smell - then it has to be grotesque way we ruin the vistas of an otherwise beautiful world. Stand me at a bar full of svelte supermodels and muscle men and the whole scene is ruined for everyone. People get up from their chairs and leave their favourite drinking hole throwing up because the sea of beauty has been tarnished with the sludge of a sphincterless whale. Shame on me. Oh no - wait, it can't be that. I seem to remember most bars I have frequented have been littered with some of the most repugnant abusive assholes, throwing amazingly quite and witty jibes about my size at me - I still stand astounded and amazed at the ingenuity of "blubbery twat". Simply put - these narrow minded Neanderthal people have such a poor view of themselves that they pick on people who the believe pose no threat to them and will roll with the punches like all us chubby funsters (to quote Ricky Gervais - a surprisingly fattist fatty). I won't say it's not my fault that I'm morbidly obese (actually - today I stepped out into the simply obese category - but as it would currently take a small lollipop to tip me over, I will stay on the bigger side for the purposes of this rant). I also won't also pretend that my life would have been totally amazing without the name calling and aggressive comments that have been hurled at me - no, that would be all too much of a lie. However, what I will say is that at the point that I realised how bad this all was for me, I was already there. My way to normal was blocked by the ties of this most frustrating condition. So very blocked, that I found it an physical and mental impossibility to change my ways permanently. I did try and I tried very hard. But I failed...and got heavier. So there I was - fat and not very proud. My will power alone just wasn't up to the job. Even if it meant that I had to spend my days living with the barrage of arrows that were thrown my way to make other more figure-fortunate people comfortable with their own lives. So, I developed quite a hatred for these people. I'm a human being with the normal human feelings most people have - including vengeance. I wish them all the pain that the delivered to me and to be dished back at them a hundred-fold. Being as I am, that is my nature and it's where I stand. Not entirely honourable I know - but this set of gurglings I have decided to throw together is designed to be a therapeutic release for me and it would be pointless of me to pretend to be an other-worldly saint who forgave everyone - for they knew not what they did. I sit and write this as a small punch back at them because I know most of them knew damn well what they did. I do wish to "let it go" with time - and maybe I will as I push myself further away from the firing line. It's probably healthier that way! Most of the people who read this blog are people in my position having decided to undergo weight loss surgery or are making that decision now. Most of the people reading this are simply reliving exactly what they have been through their entire lives. Most of the people that read this will be some of the most unassuming pleasant people around, because of how they have had to grow up under a tirade of readily accepted banter, designed to tear them apart and amuse or satisfy others. Most of the people that read this will also be aware, that they are reading this without the danger of bumping into a anti-fatty browsing through the pages. I mean, would they have really made it past the word "negativity" in the first sentence? Come on - it's five syllables long! Here endeth my negativity...amen. Originally posted at:

Following a very strict liver-reduction diet and five days of post-operative mush, I am a quarter of the way to my ideal weight. At this rate, I will be at my target of 14 stone (196 lbs or 89kgs) in about two months. Now, obviously I am not stupid enough to think that this is a) possible or :cursing: entirely healthy. But it makes me determined that this thing is going to work. I have another 24 days left of the puree diet (yes, I am counting the days) and I think I may well burst into tears of joy when I finally get round to chewing on something less akin to toddler poo. That said, the toddler poo to date has been truly satisfying and quite tasty following far too many days on water and herbal tea. I should stipulate that the band I have been fitted with may well not be operating to full effect at the moment, as I have not yet had my first saline fill, which is due in four to five weeks. However, the restriction due to surgery is currently quite effective and doing a damn good job. The interesting thing about this procedure for me has been an awakening of senses. My life before was very much a case of "I don't care what it tastes like - as long as there is plenty of it". Now, unable and uninterested in quantity, I am very much focused on the taste of the small portions that I am eating. My initial fear of losing my love of food may just be unfounded; my passion seems to be adapting to becoming a dedicated follower of "small and exquisite" instead of "bloody huge and bland". The other thing I notice is the fact I am now able to distinctly tell the difference between the physical and the more dangerous emotional hunger. Where as, I was always hungry and needed to eat until I was in very great danger of "doing a Hendrix" one night, I am now able to see how it all works and expose my true desire for satiation. My two girls came over for lunch a couple of days ago and they were given pizza. Normally, I would have joined them in this Mediterraneandecumbent feast - but I was fresh out of hospital and full up from a half a cup of jasmine tea I had been given an hour previously. Yes, half a cup. I looked at the pizza pieces - sumptuous with melted cheese and tender sweet corn. The pepperoni pieces calling to all and sundry like the Harpies enticing Jason. I looked...and my stomach waved away the notion with ablasé gurgle. That is when I saw my emotional hunger show its face for the first time. For 36 years, the yearning desire for emotional satiety through food had been hiding behind my real physical hunger - sometimes disguising itself as such. But never showing its true face. Up it popped out of nowhere. I felt myself thinking - "you deserve that pizza...it will make you a happy man indeed". Unfortunately for said beast of an emotion - without the ability to hide behind the true need for sustenance or pretend to be growls of hunger - it looked pretty pathetic. Standing naked in the spotlight in front of a rather bemused audience. It wasn't too many seconds later that the ridiculous thought embarrassingly shuffled off to weep in the changing rooms. It was a very bizarre experience and one that I am indebted to the little piece of silicone that is now part of my body for having. When you see the demons that have been part of your life for so long exposed in such a manner - you begin to realise how wonderfully deceptive your own brain can be. Seeing such deception played out in the cold light of day also makes it look quite stupid. However, before I write off the power of my subconscious; being millions of years in the making, I guess it won't be long before it adapts and I have to expose its new tricks. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Following a very strict liver-reduction diet and five days of post-operative mush, I am a quarter of the way to my ideal weight. At this rate, I will be at my target of 14 stone (196 lbs or 89kgs) in about two months. Now, obviously I am not stupid enough to think that this is a) possible or :w00t: entirely healthy. But it makes me determined that this thing is going to work. I have another 24 days left of the puree diet (yes, I am counting the days) and I think I may well burst into tears of joy when I finally get round to chewing on something less akin to toddler poo. That said, the toddler poo to date has been truly satisfying and quite tasty following far too many days on water and herbal tea. I should stipulate that the band I have been fitted with may well not be operating to full effect at the moment, as I have not yet had my first saline fill, which is due in four to five weeks. However, the restriction due to surgery is currently quite effective and doing a damn good job. The interesting thing about this procedure for me has been an awakening of senses. My life before was very much a case of "I don't care what it tastes like - as long as there is plenty of it". Now, unable and uninterested in quantity, I am very much focused on the taste of the small portions that I am eating. My initial fear of losing my love of food may just be unfounded; my passion seems to be adapting to becoming a dedicated follower of "small and exquisite" instead of "bloody huge and bland". The other thing I notice is the fact I am now able to distinctly tell the difference between the physical and the more dangerous emotional hunger. Where as, I was always hungry and needed to eat until I was in very great danger of "doing a Hendrix" one night, I am now able to see how it all works and expose my true desire for satiation. My two girls came over for lunch a couple of days ago and they were given pizza. Normally, I would have joined them in this Mediterraneandecumbent feast - but I was fresh out of hospital and full up from a half a cup of jasmine tea I had been given an hour previously. Yes, half a cup. I looked at the pizza pieces - sumptuous with melted cheese and tender sweet corn. The pepperoni pieces calling to all and sundry like the Harpies enticing Jason. I looked...and my stomach waved away the notion with ablasé gurgle. That is when I saw my emotional hunger show its face for the first time. For 36 years, the yearning desire for emotional satiety through food had been hiding behind my real physical hunger - sometimes disguising itself as such. But never showing its true face. Up it popped out of nowhere. I felt myself thinking - "you deserve that pizza...it will make you a happy man indeed". Unfortunately for said beast of an emotion - without the ability to hide behind the true need for sustenance or pretend to be growls of hunger - it looked pretty pathetic. Standing naked in the spotlight in front of a rather bemused audience. It wasn't too many seconds later that the ridiculous thought embarrassingly shuffled off to weep in the changing rooms. It was a very bizarre experience and one that I am indebted to the little piece of silicone that is now part of my body for having. When you see the demons that have been part of your life for so long exposed in such a manner - you begin to realise how wonderfully deceptive your own brain can be. Seeing such deception played out in the cold light of day also makes it look quite stupid. However, before I write off the power of my subconscious; being millions of years in the making, I guess it won't be long before it adapts and I have to expose its new tricks. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Hi The shortness of breath had me too! Couldn't manage a flight of stairs without thinking "oh my, here come a thrombosis". Luckily, I think it's just a combo of the gas and diaphram/abdominal muscles just needing to settle a bit after being poked and prodded. It seems to be getting better with a bit of exercise. The main problems for me have been the gas and severe muscle aches mainly in my back. Can't share your experience on the bottom end though! Here's looking forward to this morning's mush! Ben

Never fear - I am told my pain receptors are far more sensitive than most people I know - on top of that, you won't have the downside of being a chap - see how we handle having a simple cold?! I do believe I have been as pathetic in the past as to use the words "flu", "shooting migraine" and even "bastard tumour" instead of the phrase "a little sniffle". All the best for your surgery next week - it won't be nearly as bad as I liked to moan!

So, here I am a day after surgery. Guess what! I made it through in tact. With a few scars, a little less hair and a lot of learning to do. The day went as planned. I arrived at seven thirty as instructed and was in my gown, support stockings and rather fetching paper knickers by eight. The formalities were taken care of - a couple of signatures were needed on well-guarded legal papers ensuring I wasn't able to claim for damages in the unlikely event of me failing the post operative "aliveness test". One point I would like to raise here is that the "unlikely event" was suddenly presented to me as 1in 1000; a dramatic increase of odds from the original 1 in 1666.6 recurring that I was originally quoted. Was this a method of getting people in then telling the truth so they were less likely to back out? Had the surgeon's month since seeing me last gone so drastically wrong? Either way - I was in my paper panties and nothing was going to get me out of them! Following the sombre surgeon's sojourn, I was introduced to the man who was in the responsible position of anaesthetising me. A very nice chap with the most god-awful dress sense. I get the feeling it was some kind of patient amusement tactic. Making me believe that, I may well look like a transvestite mental asylum patient in a floral backless dress that flashed tight disposable panties, but at least I didn't look as silly as him. Or maybe he was just partaking of his own drugs. I was led down the hall to the room where I was to be sedated and knocked out. This is where my innate coward pushed aside my bravado and made his way to the forefront of the stage. There, laid serenely in front of me, was what I can only describe as a mortuary slab with a green blanket. I looked back at the pendulous double swinging doors as they eased closed and surveyed my opportunities for a semi-clad escape. I was laying down before I could work out whether the doors would open outwards or whether a mad dash through would do the anaesthetist's job for him. The peer pressure of being so dressed on front of three professional people allowed a few more moments of assumed nonchalance to reappear through my devastated pride. I lay down and looked up. As I considered the six nostrils floating above me, an oxygen mask was put over my face. Panic time! I desperately searched through my arsenal of puerile wit and innuendo so I could disarm the team into such fits of hysterics that I could take flight, or at least delay this trip for a few more minutes. My hand was prepared for the drugs and a cannula inserted. I didn't have much time! Eureka! I created a joke. One so funny that they would be in stitches before me! I made my pre-emptive strike... As the first two words of my epic joke were muttered...I found myself rather confused about the fact that I seemed to skip right to the end, miss the middle, miss the punchline and awake sobbing in the recovery room. Here I would like to assure all readers that it's perfectly normal for emotions to run a little high whilst waking up from the anaesthetic. And that I am indeed a little girl. I had read as many stories about the post-surgery pain that I could. All searches that I had made under "no pain after surgery" had assured me that there would be very little to none at all. In fact, I was so annoyed by the discrepancy in these stories and fact that I wiped the tears from my face and questioned the nurse on whether they had actually had to do open surgery instead of the promised laproscopic one. She reassured me that everything had gone smoothly and requested more tissues for me from her colleague. Eventually I pulled myself together and allowed them to wheel me back to my room. All the way wondering if something wasn't quite right. Had my searches for "no pain after surgery" been misleading? As the hours passed by slowly and the pummelling leg massagers pummelled, I really got to grips with the pain I was feeling. After being sneered at by one nurse for not having the experience to understand true pain until I was able to give birth, I queried my tolerance to other feelings outside of my own comfort. Was I just "being a man" and not handling it at all well? I came to the conclusion, yes - I was. The pain, initially described as 9 out if 10 (10 probably feeling one step away from the gates of hell) was re-evaluated in my mind as the anaesthetic wore off, as merely "heavy discomfort". Apparently they pumped my abdominal cavity full if gas so as to spread the organs and make surgery easier. A little like the stories one hears of brattish children using straws to inflate frogs before popping them.And this was what was causing my distress. Imagine being forced to drink a litre of very fizzy Pepsi in ten seconds. That feeling of just before you erupt in a thunderous belch - held in place by someone tying up the opening of your stomach. Or that feeling when you under chew and rush swallow something far to big and indigestible for your narrow pipes - like a tough piece of steak. As it makes its way slowly down to the stomach neck - then momentarily fools you into thinking these are your last moments on earth. Immense and intense agony for people with a pain threshold such as mine - passable and manageable for others. This cause me to get very little sleep last night and I had to sit upright throughout. I also subjected myself to a truly dreadful film with Matt Damon and Thandie Newton. I was unsure at that point with was more painful to sit through. Today is a slightly different story. The abdominal gas is still present but now displays itself in "referred" format. The gasses press hard against my diaphragm and cause my shoulder and back to hurt. The muscles that I am using to move my excessive bulk about that are compensating for my temporarily retire stomach muscles are not used to carrying the majority of my weight and are, in turn, screaming back at me for subjecting them to such torture. I am able to drink clear liquids far more easily today and I can feel myself getting much better with every hour that passes. Touch wood, all will be back to normal fairly shortly. I am due to be on liquids until Monday then pureed food for four weeks. I am quite a fan of baby food - so don't think this is going to be much of a problem. After then I will move on to small portions of solid foods for the rest of my days. No bread, pasta or rice or anything that could block the passage way through my newly partitioned stomach. A regime of watching exactly what I eat will be in order from now on along with a healthy dose of exercise. The edge of my hunger will be abolished from when I have my first band fill in five weeks time, in which case it will give me that helping hand that I have been missing from previous efforts. All in all, I would say that I don't particularly want to go through surgery again (mainly because I am pathetic with pain, but slightly because of the disposable panties) - but I am very much looking forward to being able to explore a new kind of life in the coming years. I do believe I now deserve a co-codamol / Voltarol cocktail! For those of you who are starting to read these posts from outside the Lap Band community and want to know I little more about what I have had done, you can follow this link which sums everything up pretty nicely: Lapband.com - About the LAP-BAND® Adjustable Gastric Banding System If you would like to see the stories of others who have gone through the procedures, their trials and amazing successes, please visit http://www.lapbandtalk.com or http://www.ukgastricband.co.uk Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

So, here I am a day after surgery. Guess what! I made it through in tact. With a few scars, a little less hair and a lot of learning to do. The day went as planned. I arrived at seven thirty as instructed and was in my gown, support stockings and rather fetching paper knickers by eight. The formalities were taken care of - a couple of signatures were needed on well-guarded legal papers ensuring I wasn't able to claim for damages in the unlikely event of me failing the post operative "aliveness test". One point I would like to raise here is that the "unlikely event" was suddenly presented to me as 1in 1000; a dramatic increase of odds from the original 1 in 1666.6 recurring that I was originally quoted. Was this a method of getting people in then telling the truth so they were less likely to back out? Had the surgeon's month since seeing me last gone so drastically wrong? Either way - I was in my paper panties and nothing was going to get me out of them! Following the sombre surgeon's sojourn, I was introduced to the man who was in the responsible position of anaesthetising me. A very nice chap with the most god-awful dress sense. I get the feeling it was some kind of patient amusement tactic. Making me believe that, I may well look like a transvestite mental asylum patient in a floral backless dress that flashed tight disposable panties, but at least I didn't look as silly as him. Or maybe he was just partaking of his own drugs. I was led down the hall to the room where I was to be sedated and knocked out. This is where my innate coward pushed aside my bravado and made his way to the forefront of the stage. There, laid serenely in front of me, was what I can only describe as a mortuary slab with a green blanket. I looked back at the pendulous double swinging doors as they eased closed and surveyed my opportunities for a semi-clad escape. I was laying down before I could work out whether the doors would open outwards or whether a mad dash through would do the anaesthetist's job for him. The peer pressure of being so dressed on front of three professional people allowed a few more moments of assumed nonchalance to reappear through my devastated pride. I lay down and looked up. As I considered the six nostrils floating above me, an oxygen mask was put over my face. Panic time! I desperately searched through my arsenal of puerile wit and innuendo so I could disarm the team into such fits of hysterics that I could take flight, or at least delay this trip for a few more minutes. My hand was prepared for the drugs and a cannula inserted. I didn't have much time! Eureka! I created a joke. One so funny that they would be in stitches before me! I made my pre-emptive strike... As the first two words of my epic joke were muttered...I found myself rather confused about the fact that I seemed to skip right to the end, miss the middle, miss the punchline and awake sobbing in the recovery room. Here I would like to assure all readers that it's perfectly normal for emotions to run a little high whilst waking up from the anaesthetic. And that I am indeed a little girl. I had read as many stories about the post-surgery pain that I could. All searches that I had made under "no pain after surgery" had assured me that there would be very little to none at all. In fact, I was so annoyed by the discrepancy in these stories and fact that I wiped the tears from my face and questioned the nurse on whether they had actually had to do open surgery instead of the promised laproscopic one. She reassured me that everything had gone smoothly and requested more tissues for me from her colleague. Eventually I pulled myself together and allowed them to wheel me back to my room. All the way wondering if something wasn't quite right. Had my searches for "no pain after surgery" been misleading? As the hours passed by slowly and the pummelling leg massagers pummelled, I really got to grips with the pain I was feeling. After being sneered at by one nurse for not having the experience to understand true pain until I was able to give birth, I queried my tolerance to other feelings outside of my own comfort. Was I just "being a man" and not handling it at all well? I came to the conclusion, yes - I was. The pain, initially described as 9 out if 10 (10 probably feeling one step away from the gates of hell) was re-evaluated in my mind as the anaesthetic wore off, as merely "heavy discomfort". Apparently they pumped my abdominal cavity full if gas so as to spread the organs and make surgery easier. A little like the stories one hears of brattish children using straws to inflate frogs before popping them.And this was what was causing my distress. Imagine being forced to drink a litre of very fizzy Pepsi in ten seconds. That feeling of just before you erupt in a thunderous belch - held in place by someone tying up the opening of your stomach. Or that feeling when you under chew and rush swallow something far to big and indigestible for your narrow pipes - like a tough piece of steak. As it makes its way slowly down to the stomach neck - then momentarily fools you into thinking these are your last moments on earth. Immense and intense agony for people with a pain threshold such as mine - passable and manageable for others. This cause me to get very little sleep last night and I had to sit upright throughout. I also subjected myself to a truly dreadful film with Matt Damon and Thandie Newton. I was unsure at that point with was more painful to sit through. Today is a slightly different story. The abdominal gas is still present but now displays itself in "referred" format. The gasses press hard against my diaphragm and cause my shoulder and back to hurt. The muscles that I am using to move my excessive bulk about that are compensating for my temporarily retire stomach muscles are not used to carrying the majority of my weight and are, in turn, screaming back at me for subjecting them to such torture. I am able to drink clear liquids far more easily today and I can feel myself getting much better with every hour that passes. Touch wood, all will be back to normal fairly shortly. I am due to be on liquids until Monday then pureed food for four weeks. I am quite a fan of baby food - so don't think this is going to be much of a problem. After then I will move on to small portions of solid foods for the rest of my days. No bread, pasta or rice or anything that could block the passage way through my newly partitioned stomach. A regime of watching exactly what I eat will be in order from now on along with a healthy dose of exercise. The edge of my hunger will be abolished from when I have my first band fill in five weeks time, in which case it will give me that helping hand that I have been missing from previous efforts. All in all, I would say that I don't particularly want to go through surgery again (mainly because I am pathetic with pain, but slightly because of the disposable panties) - but I am very much looking forward to being able to explore a new kind of life in the coming years. I do believe I now deserve a co-codamol / Voltarol cocktail! For those of you who are starting to read these posts from outside the Lap Band community and want to know I little more about what I have had done, you can follow this link which sums everything up pretty nicely: Lapband.com - About the LAP-BAND® Adjustable Gastric Banding System If you would like to see the stories of others who have gone through the procedures, their trials and amazing successes, please visit http://www.lapbandtalk.com or http://www.ukgastricband.co.uk Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

I'm just checking in too from hospital via my already slim and sexy iPhone. Not up to writing my usual novelettas! I feel pretty much the same...it would be so much better if they would have the decency to suck out all that air they pumped me with. Well done Le-Le and good luck for today Lisa-R and for the 3rd inri09, and I hope all went well with you Dixiedawgie. Back to trying to burp...

Thanks for your lovely comments. To quote the over inflated Mr Schwarzenegger...I'll be back!

Well, the time has come for me to right my final blog as an unaided dieter. I will hopefully be signing back in soon after the operation at the weekend to update the few and far between people that read this that I made it through to the other side (well, not that other side...this side of that side!). I don't have much to talk about myself in this "instalment" - instead, I would like to focus on others. With the operation being so close, I have had to disclose details to a couple of very close friends and some family. Initially, I wasn't planning on telling anybody about this until after the fact; but good sense and a certain amount of social responsibility crept in. Being very fragile beasts, us humans don't take kindly to people doing things that apparently put themselves in danger and knee jerk reactions take hold. The first thing everyone did (and, if you are reading this as a friend or family you will probably do) was stand amazed. Their mouths drop and form the agape and hollow "O" of shock and horror. Then, they furrow their brows in utter confusion. "Did he just say what I thought he said?" "Is he serious?" Well, yes I believe I did...and I do think that I am. The reason they are doing this is primarily out of ignorance. Not in life in general, but to the procedure. They immediately see knives, death, butchers, stapling, cutting, more death, blood, guts, bruises, some more death and blood; but, most of all, they see failure. I often like to consider myself well educated and quite intelligent - just because I am very arrogant like that. But, this time I know for a fact that, on this particular subject, I am far more read up than everyone I have told and will tell in my circle of friends. Even more informed than one of my closest buddies, the heart surgeon. All because I have read everything there is to know about the procedure and the lifestyle changes involved - because it is happening to me. Not one person I tell will have read anything outside of the odd celebrity tabloid splash. No I am not so up myself to imagine I know more than all of them on every subject - in fact, I would say I know a tincy wincy bit less than the heart surgeon in the field of say, heart surgery. But, I'm sure he recoiled at the horrors of voluntary general anaesthesia. Something he himself went through for adicky shoulder not so long ago. Neither am I assuming I am better versed on my friend the multi-marathon runner and ultimate endurance athlete in the topic of fitness. Even with the best will in the world, his knowledge on the subject was so far superior than mine that nearly every word he uttered to me on the subject - and there was a lot - didn't fit into my brain and fell immediately out the other ear. So, when it comes to informed decisions on Lap Band surgery, I am the one who can make that and confidently know I am making the right decision. I would challenge anyone who is preparing to consider me a failure or taking the easy way out to do some research of their own on what I am going to go through and come back to me when they feel they are even half read as I am (and as the thousands of fellowchubsters across the globe become before making this decision) - and try and counter-argue why I have chosen this path and what I am doing it for. I bet your bottom cream cake that they won't attempt to. Immediate reaction is a good thing in terms of survival - but I would suggest that if you are finding out about my experience on this blog and you know me - please don't jump and judge me for taking my last resort on turning the corner on a very tiresome journey to 215lbs. For a simple and effective tutorial on how I came to this choice, follow these steps: Smoke the strongest marijuana you can find until your eyes nearly fall out of your head. Get hold of that feeling of the most uncontrollable munchies and maintain that pose for fifteen years - sitting opposite a bowl of your favourite comfort food. Keep smoking and stay in front of that food. When you succumb, invite people to mock you for another fifteen years for being a failure. Go into a hall of mirrors and look at the biggest, ugliest version of you that you can find and proclaim that you love the way you look in that mirror...do this for fifteen years, whilst praying that someone smashes the mirror. When they do, turn around and realise all mirrors now show the same thing. Go shopping for clothes that do not exist in your size and ensure that the assistants look down their noses for you having the gall to ask if they stock anything appropriate. Do this every weekend. For fifteen years. Strap a fully grown small adult woman to your chest and walk around for fifteen years like that - don't worry, she will just hang there and say nothing. She may prod you in the liver once in a while, give you diabetes and make people laugh and be disgusted at you - but that's not too much for you to take is it. When, after trying to get her off repeatedly for fifteen years and you decide the time has come to ask somebody to help you unstrap her...watch out - I understand that people maybe judging you for being a failure or for taking the easy way out. All I ask is that you close your agaped "O" and think. How bad must my health and self-image be for me to make this choice. Me - the coward of everything; from flying planes to tiny spiders. Me - the hater of hospitals and needles. Imagine how much misery and pain I have suffered quietly for over fifteen years to entrust myself to a surgery that I really wouldn't want to have if I did not have to. Imagine if you were as heavy as me. All I ask is that you empathise, do some research and realise it's not quite what you think and wish me well on my way to being healthy. See you all on this side of the other side. Respect! Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Well, the time has come for me to right my final blog as an unaided dieter. I will hopefully be signing back in soon after the operation at the weekend to update the few and far between people that read this that I made it through to the other side (well, not that other side...this side of that side!). I don't have much to talk about myself in this "instalment" - instead, I would like to focus on others. With the operation being so close, I have had to disclose details to a couple of very close friends and some family. Initially, I wasn't planning on telling anybody about this until after the fact; but good sense and a certain amount of social responsibility crept in. Being very fragile beasts, us humans don't take kindly to people doing things that apparently put themselves in danger and knee jerk reactions take hold. The first thing everyone did (and, if you are reading this as a friend or family you will probably do) was stand amazed. Their mouths drop and form the agape and hollow "O" of shock and horror. Then, they furrow their brows in utter confusion. "Did he just say what I thought he said?" "Is he serious?" Well, yes I believe I did...and I do think that I am. The reason they are doing this is primarily out of ignorance. Not in life in general, but to the procedure. They immediately see knives, death, butchers, stapling, cutting, more death, blood, guts, bruises, some more death and blood; but, most of all, they see failure. I often like to consider myself well educated and quite intelligent - just because I am very arrogant like that. But, this time I know for a fact that, on this particular subject, I am far more read up than everyone I have told and will tell in my circle of friends. Even more informed than one of my closest buddies, the heart surgeon. All because I have read everything there is to know about the procedure and the lifestyle changes involved - because it is happening to me. Not one person I tell will have read anything outside of the odd celebrity tabloid splash. No I am not so up myself to imagine I know more than all of them on every subject - in fact, I would say I know a tincy wincy bit less than the heart surgeon in the field of say, heart surgery. But, I'm sure he recoiled at the horrors of voluntary general anaesthesia. Something he himself went through for adicky shoulder not so long ago. Neither am I assuming I am better versed on my friend the multi-marathon runner and ultimate endurance athlete in the topic of fitness. Even with the best will in the world, his knowledge on the subject was so far superior than mine that nearly every word he uttered to me on the subject - and there was a lot - didn't fit into my brain and fell immediately out the other ear. So, when it comes to informed decisions on Lap Band surgery, I am the one who can make that and confidently know I am making the right decision. I would challenge anyone who is preparing to consider me a failure or taking the easy way out to do some research of their own on what I am going to go through and come back to me when they feel they are even half read as I am (and as the thousands of fellowchubsters across the globe become before making this decision) - and try and counter-argue why I have chosen this path and what I am doing it for. I bet your bottom cream cake that they won't attempt to. Immediate reaction is a good thing in terms of survival - but I would suggest that if you are finding out about my experience on this blog and you know me - please don't jump and judge me for taking my last resort on turning the corner on a very tiresome journey to 215lbs. For a simple and effective tutorial on how I came to this choice, follow these steps: Smoke the strongest marijuana you can find until your eyes nearly fall out of your head. Get hold of that feeling of the most uncontrollable munchies and maintain that pose for fifteen years - sitting opposite a bowl of your favourite comfort food. Keep smoking and stay in front of that food. When you succumb, invite people to mock you for another fifteen years for being a failure. Go into a hall of mirrors and look at the biggest, ugliest version of you that you can find and proclaim that you love the way you look in that mirror...do this for fifteen years, whilst praying that someone smashes the mirror. When they do, turn around and realise all mirrors now show the same thing. Go shopping for clothes that do not exist in your size and ensure that the assistants look down their noses for you having the gall to ask if they stock anything appropriate. Do this every weekend. For fifteen years. Strap a fully grown small adult woman to your chest and walk around for fifteen years like that - don't worry, she will just hang there and say nothing. She may prod you in the liver once in a while, give you diabetes and make people laugh and be disgusted at you - but that's not too much for you to take is it. When, after trying to get her off repeatedly for fifteen years and you decide the time has come to ask somebody to help you unstrap her...watch out - I understand that people maybe judging you for being a failure or for taking the easy way out. All I ask is that you close your agaped "O" and think. How bad must my health and self-image be for me to make this choice. Me - the coward of everything; from flying planes to tiny spiders. Me - the hater of hospitals and needles. Imagine how much misery and pain I have suffered quietly for over fifteen years to entrust myself to a surgery that I really wouldn't want to have if I did not have to. Imagine if you were as heavy as me. All I ask is that you empathise, do some research and realise it's not quite what you think and wish me well on my way to being healthy. See you all on this side of the other side. Respect! Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Hey chaps - not tomorrow, or the next day...but the next day! Yulp!

Before I lose the ability to eat fourteen rhino ribs and a bath full of potatoes in one sitting, I figured it was probably the best time to do what I do and analyze myself once more and explore one of my most confusing behaviours. To find out why eating so much makes me so damn happy, whilst knowing that the result of eating so much makes me so utterly miserable. I suppose the first thing to do would be to pin-point any psychological anomalies that could be ear-marked as a place to start hunting for the answer. Not being a psychologist, I will make have to look in the direction of the only psycho-analysis I have witnessed...cross examination of serial killers from Hollywood flicks! So, here goes: Did I have a problem childhood? No. Not that I remember. As soon as the memory kicks in after having been locked in a cupboard for ten years, everything seems rosy. Did I suffer abusive or problematic relationships? Definitely not. Every relationship I have had has been as problematic and as abusive as the others. Am I secure and open in my sexuality? I am totally secure and open in the fact that know one will ever know which way I swing. Of course, none of the above is relevant or indeed true. However, in my mind-searching, I can really find nothing of any note that would make me find pleasure in slow suicide. At this juncture, it may be worth noting that the idea of eating being a "slow suicide" may seem slightly theatrical, but I should point out that the amount of food, the types of food (and not forgetting the amount of drink) that I put away could not be classed as anything other than a direct train ride to the cemetery. So why did I do it? I have, as most overweight people have, blamed it on everything else but me. It's my genetics. It's my metabolism. It's society's fault. It's my parents' fault. It's everybody else's fault. I would blame my dog - but I ate him.* Part of this process has being able to admit to myself, it is indeed my fault. Not theirs, not yours - but mine. My genes, metabolism and people around me may well have some influence - but in the end I make the choice of what and how much I eat. So, if it is all my fault and I know for a fact that it is very dangerous to do it - what the hell am I doing? I have been on a pre-op diet for over a week now and all week, I have been a right royal pain in the backside to anyone I sat and ate with. I became a "reformed eater" over night. Pointing out to my fellow dinners how many calories they were eating, how much sugar was in their drink, what the percentage of carbohydrates was in their desert. I became the type of person that people just want to choke to death on their liver-reducing crispbread. Yesterday, I stopped preaching to people...and the reason for that? It's because I am now getting to the point I always get to when I diet - I am getting that urge again. The urge to eat. It was only tonight after my partner and I had a row, when I reached into the fridge to sneak a hunk of cheese (not a carrot or something equally healthy - but a big fat hunk of cheddar cheese) that I think I have a clue to my problem. When I feel a hunger pang - my immediate reaction, when I am feeling slightly lower than happy, is to reach for the food that satisfies my hunger and also reminds me of happy times. The question of course is: Why would cheese remind me of happy times? Well, I would have been equally happy with KFC, steak, Nutella or a pizza. They are things that I was rewarded with as a child, or when there was a special occasion. Cheese, because of cheese on toast which has always been a comfort food. I was never rewarded with a carrot or a salad. I can never remember a big slap-up birthday salad. I was always celebrating with fatty or sugary food. I must stress, that I am not blaming anyone else (anymore) for my weight - those who offered me the "happy" foods when I was younger do not make me eat it today and I am fully aware of my actions when I eat. But I believe that perhaps I know the reason's as to why the urge is there. The blame for my weight is simply the fact that my will power, when it comes to denying myself that comfort when hunger strikes, is just not there. My lack of will-power combined with my need for comfort far outweighs my sense when the time comes. It is an addiction that I can't deny. That lack of will-power is in my opinion a chemical imbalance - I am a Darwinian - I believe all our thoughts and urges are chemical and electrical. I believe that what makes a successful dieter different to an unsuccessful one is the difference in their brain chemistry and no matter how hard I tried - I would always succumb to the lack f chemical influence in the right place - the weakness of me. Perhaps if I had the time for intense rehab and indeed if there was a place where I could go for this could be trained out of me, I may overcome my addiction in a different way - by destroying the mental link between my hunger and the "happy food". But I don't have the time to go away for a month of intensive re-education - and there isn't a place. I have found a solution that will get limit my hunger and therefore cut off the necessity to satiate with the things that give me the instant killer lift. I was nearly beaten tonight, but I took my mind off it by writing this blog about cheese instead... * for all the RSPCA and PETA people out there, I didn't really. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Before I lose the ability to eat fourteen rhino ribs and a bath full of potatoes in one sitting, I figured it was probably the best time to do what I do and analyze myself once more and explore one of my most confusing behaviours. To find out why eating so much makes me so damn happy, whilst knowing that the result of eating so much makes me so utterly miserable. I suppose the first thing to do would be to pin-point any psychological anomalies that could be ear-marked as a place to start hunting for the answer. Not being a psychologist, I will make have to look in the direction of the only psycho-analysis I have witnessed...cross examination of serial killers from Hollywood flicks! So, here goes: Did I have a problem childhood? No. Not that I remember. As soon as the memory kicks in after having been locked in a cupboard for ten years, everything seems rosy. Did I suffer abusive or problematic relationships? Definitely not. Every relationship I have had has been as problematic and as abusive as the others. Am I secure and open in my sexuality? I am totally secure and open in the fact that know one will ever know which way I swing. Of course, none of the above is relevant or indeed true. However, in my mind-searching, I can really find nothing of any note that would make me find pleasure in slow suicide. At this juncture, it may be worth noting that the idea of eating being a "slow suicide" may seem slightly theatrical, but I should point out that the amount of food, the types of food (and not forgetting the amount of drink) that I put away could not be classed as anything other than a direct train ride to the cemetery. So why did I do it? I have, as most overweight people have, blamed it on everything else but me. It's my genetics. It's my metabolism. It's society's fault. It's my parents' fault. It's everybody else's fault. I would blame my dog - but I ate him.* Part of this process has being able to admit to myself, it is indeed my fault. Not theirs, not yours - but mine. My genes, metabolism and people around me may well have some influence - but in the end I make the choice of what and how much I eat. So, if it is all my fault and I know for a fact that it is very dangerous to do it - what the hell am I doing? I have been on a pre-op diet for over a week now and all week, I have been a right royal pain in the backside to anyone I sat and ate with. I became a "reformed eater" over night. Pointing out to my fellow dinners how many calories they were eating, how much sugar was in their drink, what the percentage of carbohydrates was in their desert. I became the type of person that people just want to choke to death on their liver-reducing crispbread. Yesterday, I stopped preaching to people...and the reason for that? It's because I am now getting to the point I always get to when I diet - I am getting that urge again. The urge to eat. It was only tonight after my partner and I had a row, when I reached into the fridge to sneak a hunk of cheese (not a carrot or something equally healthy - but a big fat hunk of cheddar cheese) that I think I have a clue to my problem. When I feel a hunger pang - my immediate reaction, when I am feeling slightly lower than happy, is to reach for the food that satisfies my hunger and also reminds me of happy times. The question of course is: Why would cheese remind me of happy times? Well, I would have been equally happy with KFC, steak, Nutella or a pizza. They are things that I was rewarded with as a child, or when there was a special occasion. Cheese, because of cheese on toast which has always been a comfort food. I was never rewarded with a carrot or a salad. I can never remember a big slap-up birthday salad. I was always celebrating with fatty or sugary food. I must stress, that I am not blaming anyone else (anymore) for my weight - those who offered me the "happy" foods when I was younger do not make me eat it today and I am fully aware of my actions when I eat. But I believe that perhaps I know the reason's as to why the urge is there. The blame for my weight is simply the fact that my will power, when it comes to denying myself that comfort when hunger strikes, is just not there. My lack of will-power combined with my need for comfort far outweighs my sense when the time comes. It is an addiction that I can't deny. That lack of will-power is in my opinion a chemical imbalance - I am a Darwinian - I believe all our thoughts and urges are chemical and electrical. I believe that what makes a successful dieter different to an unsuccessful one is the difference in their brain chemistry and no matter how hard I tried - I would always succumb to the lack f chemical influence in the right place - the weakness of me. Perhaps if I had the time for intense rehab and indeed if there was a place where I could go for this could be trained out of me, I may overcome my addiction in a different way - by destroying the mental link between my hunger and the "happy food". But I don't have the time to go away for a month of intensive re-education - and there isn't a place. I have found a solution that will get limit my hunger and therefore cut off the necessity to satiate with the things that give me the instant killer lift. I was nearly beaten tonight, but I took my mind off it by writing this blog about cheese instead... * for all the RSPCA and PETA people out there, I didn't really. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Ha ha! Nice one band_groupie!

Women fought long and hard for equal rights. I think us men should therefore have woman's extra years spread equally among us...just as as a gesture of Eve's goodwill!

Yes, perhaps I do waffle on a bit! Nevernind, it's better than eating away the time! Congrats on the weightloss.

Hey Rhori - you are in the same boat as us all. I think everyone who writes and reads the posts feels or felt the same to a varying degree. I was really scared to start with, but I have come to terms with the risks and am now excited (banded in one week). I won't post my blog here, but take a look at my latest entry http://www.lapbandtalk.com/blogs/57499/blog8619.html to see how I got around my concerns. It may well give you another way to look at it! All the best Ben

From the outset of my decision for surgery has been the nagging fear that everyone has when they commit themselves lay bare-chested in front of a man (or woman) with a big scalpel who would rather be on the golf course with Cecil Snr and Farquah the Third. The nagging fear of...am I going to die?! For people having this surgery who listen to their surgeons before-hand and do some research on the fact, the figures for death caused as a direct result of laproscopic procedure to fit a gastric band are quoted as anywhere between 1 in 1500 and 1 in 3000. That's quite a big difference in odds, so I tend to be darkly cautious and weigh up my options using the 1 in 1500 figure. Each hospital, surgical team or individual surgeon has their own quotes - much in the same way that each bank has its own mortgage rates. I was personally quoted a 0.06% morbidity rate, which wasn't the best on the high street, but I'm keen to keep my aftercare as close to home as possible. I also noticed that, unlike me, he had very steady hands. Initially, when quoted this morbidity figure of 0.06% (i.e. my chance of snuffing it), I felt like throwing the idea of ever being at a healthy weight down the pan - along with my shredded cardboard breakfast that they call All Bran. Then, I took some time out and decided to explore the Internet, the forums and the books and see what other people thought on this and what it actually meant in real terms. Having scoured the Internet for comparisons of causes of death, I was strangely heartened by these figures of average citizens in the US (heartened not because I hate Americans, but that's where most of the stats seem to derive!): Your chances of dying in your lifetime by firearms is 1 in 325. Your chances of dying in your lifetime by a car accident are a shocking 1 in 100. Your chances of dying by fire or smoke are 1 in 1000. Now, I don't ever intend dying by any of those causes - but, the figures above haven't stopped me carelessly and recklessly allowing myself to sit in a car on the death-laden roads of Britain. They haven't stopped me walking unarmoured through "Da Hood" of Winchester where gun crime must run amok. They haven't encouraged me to spend the rest of my life in a swimming pool away from the danger of fire (the odds of drowning are 1 in 8942, however in the previous scenario, I imagine the odds would be amended a little). I also found myself reconsidering my weekly Lotto purchase, considering I am 70 times more likely to be killed in an asteroid impact. I realise that these figures are over the course of an average lifetime - so perhaps I should bring it in a little, as my surgery figures are calculated using the timescale from the surgery to 30 days after. Cranking it down to a period of a year, these UK (yay!) statistics lead me to further re-consider my initial balk at the risk. For example, did you know: If you are a man between 25 and 34, you have a 1 in 1215 chance of dying of some cause in the next year. If you are a woman, you unfairly have the better odds of 1 in 2488. If you are a man between 35 and 44, your chances of death in the next twelve months increase drastically to 1 in 663 and 1 in 1106 if you are a woman. So, my chance of going under the knife are better than my chances of surviving the next 12 months if I did nothing different! But why even risk that seemingly less scary 0.06% chance? Well, that leads me back to the first statistics I found. What makes the risk acceptable to me is simply this: The average western citizen has a 1 in 5 chance of dying of heart disease. We can all pretty much work out that the 80% that miss the knock-knock-thud of heart disease don't eat the way I do (or "did") or weigh as much as I do (on the way to "did"). What makes it worth the risk is that, having seen my father die at 49 from heart disease, I want to be given the chance to be in that 80% that avoid heart disease. I want to live beyond my 40s and see my grand children. I have tried for twenty years to do it alone - and I think it's time I took a deep breath, admitted I can't do it solo and cross "Da Hood"...in my car...with a lighted candle (perhaps even stopping off at the swimming pool on the way). I think it's time I asked for help. A simple decision when you think about it. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

From the outset of my decision for surgery has been the nagging fear that everyone has when they commit themselves lay bare-chested in front of a man (or woman) with a big scalpel who would rather be on the golf course with Cecil Snr and Farquah the Third. The nagging fear of...am I going to die?! For people having this surgery who listen to their surgeons before-hand and do some research on the fact, the figures for death caused as a direct result of laproscopic procedure to fit a gastric band are quoted as anywhere between 1 in 1500 and 1 in 3000. That's quite a big difference in odds, so I tend to be darkly cautious and weigh up my options using the 1 in 1500 figure. Each hospital, surgical team or individual surgeon has their own quotes - much in the same way that each bank has its own mortgage rates. I was personally quoted a 0.06% morbidity rate, which wasn't the best on the high street, but I'm keen to keep my aftercare as close to home as possible. I also noticed that, unlike me, he had very steady hands. Initially, when quoted this morbidity figure of 0.06% (i.e. my chance of snuffing it), I felt like throwing the idea of ever being at a healthy weight down the pan - along with my shredded cardboard breakfast that they call All Bran. Then, I took some time out and decided to explore the Internet, the forums and the books and see what other people thought on this and what it actually meant in real terms. Having scoured the Internet for comparisons of causes of death, I was strangely heartened by these figures of average citizens in the US (heartened not because I hate Americans, but that's where most of the stats seem to derive!): Your chances of dying in your lifetime by firearms is 1 in 325. Your chances of dying in your lifetime by a car accident are a shocking 1 in 100. Your chances of dying by fire or smoke are 1 in 1000. Now, I don't ever intend dying by any of those causes - but, the figures above haven't stopped me carelessly and recklessly allowing myself to sit in a car on the death-laden roads of Britain. They haven't stopped me walking unarmoured through "Da Hood" of Winchester where gun crime must run amok. They haven't encouraged me to spend the rest of my life in a swimming pool away from the danger of fire (the odds of drowning are 1 in 8942, however in the previous scenario, I imagine the odds would be amended a little). I also found myself reconsidering my weekly Lotto purchase, considering I am 70 times more likely to be killed in an asteroid impact. I realise that these figures are over the course of an average lifetime - so perhaps I should bring it in a little, as my surgery figures are calculated using the timescale from the surgery to 30 days after. Cranking it down to a period of a year, these UK (yay!) statistics lead me to further re-consider my initial balk at the risk. For example, did you know: If you are a man between 25 and 34, you have a 1 in 1215 chance of dying of some cause in the next year. If you are a woman, you unfairly have the better odds of 1 in 2488. If you are a man between 35 and 44, your chances of death in the next twelve months increase drastically to 1 in 663 and 1 in 1106 if you are a woman. So, my chance of going under the knife are better than my chances of surviving the next 12 months if I did nothing different! But why even risk that seemingly less scary 0.06% chance? Well, that leads me back to the first statistics I found. What makes the risk acceptable to me is simply this: The average western citizen has a 1 in 5 chance of dying of heart disease. We can all pretty much work out that the 80% that miss the knock-knock-thud of heart disease don't eat the way I do (or "did") or weigh as much as I do (on the way to "did"). What makes it worth the risk is that, having seen my father die at 49 from heart disease, I want to be given the chance to be in that 80% that avoid heart disease. I want to live beyond my 40s and see my grand children. I have tried for twenty years to do it alone - and I think it's time I took a deep breath, admitted I can't do it solo and cross "Da Hood"...in my car...with a lighted candle (perhaps even stopping off at the swimming pool on the way). I think it's time I asked for help. A simple decision when you think about it. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Alas, it was merely pre-approved for surgery not insurance. I still have to sell my kids to get this done - so you may like me again! P.S. Good to know that if it was an insurance job I would have a deathwish!

Being woken at 3am to the sound and feel of my daughter throwing up into my excessive chest hair started my day in a less than pleasurable way. It was the day of my pre-assessment meeting with the hospital, before my surgery next week. This is where the nurse checks to see if a) it is likely that I would suffer a slight death under anaesthesia and if I did, what blood type would they need to try and pump through my tightened arteries in order to try and revive me from aforesaid inconvenience. I was a little anxious going in because I do indeed tend to look at things as I flippantly scribed above and also...I am a great big baby girl when it comes to needles. Not to mention, having eaten probably less solids all week than my daughter managed to cast upon me in the early hours of the morning, I was very much inclined to keep all calories inside my body today - even the blood! So, I turned up at the hospital with a mix of nerves, excitement (despite my overwrought fear - I am very excited about what is ahead of me) and a faint smell of curdled milk. The nurse was a very lovely lady. Violet was her name and she had absolutely no idea about the surgery that was ahead of me. She wanted my history, my blood pressure, my drinking and drug habits, precious viles of my blood and of course, my pee. That was all she came for and that was what she was going to get. There was a small amount of pleasantry while she approached me for each - a few laughs about terrorism, the odd chuckle about famine. You know - all the things your mind stumbles upon when you are staring at what seems like a six foot long needle. I, being a responsible and caring citizen, advised her that previous attempts of extracting blood from my inner elbows usually failed because of my veins clenching up like a frail and pretty new prisoner on his first shower day. At which, she dutifully laughed at the obvious inexperience of the former extractors and moved in for her one and only successful attempt. After the one and only successful attempt failed, she proclaimed that I was indeed running a little tight and that she should have listened to me and prepared the veins a bit more thoroughly before stabbing me (I of course exaggerate for effect...but not much). A good fifteen minutes of a tourniquet induced black arm, some fist flexing and finger prodding allowed one scared little vein to pop its head above the parapets for a sniper shot - upon which she pounced. The vampire had completed her task and now needed my urine. After a failed attempt at humour about an equally clenched trouser vein, I scurried to the lavatory and half filled her pot as directed. I left it where she asked and I returned to the room to advise her of the package drop. Without a word she scurried off, slapping on a bright blue pair of rubber gloves. I always prefer the timing of the donning of rubber gloves to be as a nurse leaves the room rather than when she enters. No more than thirty seconds later, she returned with a beam on her face. Apparently, I was high in ketones - which meant my pre-op diet was working and I was burning fat. Time to get on the scales then! For a private hospital, the technology behind the scales was somewhat disappointing - and even a little humiliating. I was asked to sit on a chair (a very big chair) that had somehow been welded to a contraption that looked as if it was used to measure the weight of livestock. What happened to the ultra snazzy, hi-tech, digital, wireless, chrome-effect, wafer-thin machine I stood on at the dietitian's office last week? This was for big..big people. Apparently though - the looks didn't matter - they did the same job - which leads me to believe that I wasted my money buying an iPhone when I could have bought a touch screen breeze block for a lot less. My diet over the last week had been a success - I had lost 11lbs. If I was schizophrenic, I would have been beside myself. I knew it was mainly fluid loss and 11lbs a week is a pretty unhealthy loss outside of these controlled circumstances - but I was happy. For a moment I started to think about why I was going through this process, especially if I could lose so much in one week. But then I remembered all the other diets I have attempted over the years - the few pounds lost here, the more than few pounds gained there - and I realised that I didn't want a short term weight loss, I want it for life. She probed further into my family history, asking questions about past conditions and medications - when suddenly, a rather scary looking Italian Doctor in Residence marched in, lifted my top and slammed a stethoscope on my chest. He listened, whilst thanking me for seemingly having a heart beat, then spun me around to listen to my back. "Brease in. Sank you. Brease out. Sank you. Brease in. Sank you. Brease out. Sank you.". He then scribbled something incomprehensible on my records - drew two kidney shaped lungs with an upward pointing arrow across them - shook my hand then left. I looked at the nurse and waited for some kind of translation of what that was all about. Apparently it was all good. Which was nice. I was pre-assessed and, dependent on the blood tests, was pre-approved. I put my shirt back on and thanked Violet for her time, whereupon she showed me to the finance department where I could arrange the least exciting aspect of the surgery. As I sat and waited for the admin girl to come off hold, I couldn't help but stare at the cream bun that she was saving on the side for her afternoon tea. I couldn't help but stare and think "never again". And, I couldn't help but smile. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog

Being woken at 3am to the sound and feel of my daughter throwing up into my excessive chest hair started my day in a less than pleasurable way. It was the day of my pre-assessment meeting with the hospital, before my surgery next week. This is where the nurse checks to see if a) it is likely that I would suffer a slight death under anaesthesia and :confused: if I did, what blood type would they need to try and pump through my tightened arteries in order to try and revive me from aforesaid inconvenience. I was a little anxious going in because I do indeed tend to look at things as I flippantly scribed above and also...I am a great big baby girl when it comes to needles. Not to mention, having eaten probably less solids all week than my daughter managed to cast upon me in the early hours of the morning, I was very much inclined to keep all calories inside my body today - even the blood! So, I turned up at the hospital with a mix of nerves, excitement (despite my overwrought fear - I am very excited about what is ahead of me) and a faint smell of curdled milk. The nurse was a very lovely lady. Violet was her name and she had absolutely no idea about the surgery that was ahead of me. She wanted my history, my blood pressure, my drinking and drug habits, precious viles of my blood and of course, my pee. That was all she came for and that was what she was going to get. There was a small amount of pleasantry while she approached me for each - a few laughs about terrorism, the odd chuckle about famine. You know - all the things your mind stumbles upon when you are staring at what seems like a six foot long needle. I, being a responsible and caring citizen, advised her that previous attempts of extracting blood from my inner elbows usually failed because of my veins clenching up like a frail and pretty new prisoner on his first shower day. At which, she dutifully laughed at the obvious inexperience of the former extractors and moved in for her one and only successful attempt. After the one and only successful attempt failed, she proclaimed that I was indeed running a little tight and that she should have listened to me and prepared the veins a bit more thoroughly before stabbing me (I of course exaggerate for effect...but not much). A good fifteen minutes of a tourniquet induced black arm, some fist flexing and finger prodding allowed one scared little vein to pop its head above the parapets for a sniper shot - upon which she pounced. The vampire had completed her task and now needed my urine. After a failed attempt at humour about an equally clenched trouser vein, I scurried to the lavatory and half filled her pot as directed. I left it where she asked and I returned to the room to advise her of the package drop. Without a word she scurried off, slapping on a bright blue pair of rubber gloves. I always prefer the timing of the donning of rubber gloves to be as a nurse leaves the room rather than when she enters. No more than thirty seconds later, she returned with a beam on her face. Apparently, I was high in ketones - which meant my pre-op diet was working and I was burning fat. Time to get on the scales then! For a private hospital, the technology behind the scales was somewhat disappointing - and even a little humiliating. I was asked to sit on a chair (a very big chair) that had somehow been welded to a contraption that looked as if it was used to measure the weight of livestock. What happened to the ultra snazzy, hi-tech, digital, wireless, chrome-effect, wafer-thin machine I stood on at the dietitian's office last week? This was for big..big people. Apparently though - the looks didn't matter - they did the same job - which leads me to believe that I wasted my money buying an iPhone when I could have bought a touch screen breeze block for a lot less. My diet over the last week had been a success - I had lost 11lbs. If I was schizophrenic, I would have been beside myself. I knew it was mainly fluid loss and 11lbs a week is a pretty unhealthy loss outside of these controlled circumstances - but I was happy. For a moment I started to think about why I was going through this process, especially if I could lose so much in one week. But then I remembered all the other diets I have attempted over the years - the few pounds lost here, the more than few pounds gained there - and I realised that I didn't want a short term weight loss, I want it for life. She probed further into my family history, asking questions about past conditions and medications - when suddenly, a rather scary looking Italian Doctor in Residence marched in, lifted my top and slammed a stethoscope on my chest. He listened, whilst thanking me for seemingly having a heart beat, then spun me around to listen to my back. "Brease in. Sank you. Brease out. Sank you. Brease in. Sank you. Brease out. Sank you.". He then scribbled something incomprehensible on my records - drew two kidney shaped lungs with an upward pointing arrow across them - shook my hand then left. I looked at the nurse and waited for some kind of translation of what that was all about. Apparently it was all good. Which was nice. I was pre-assessed and, dependent on the blood tests, was pre-approved. I put my shirt back on and thanked Violet for her time, whereupon she showed me to the finance department where I could arrange the least exciting aspect of the surgery. As I sat and waited for the admin girl to come off hold, I couldn't help but stare at the cream bun that she was saving on the side for her afternoon tea. I couldn't help but stare and think "never again". And, I couldn't help but smile. Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog