So, if you know me, it’s no secret I’ve struggled with my weight for quite some time (I'm almost 38, so I suppose I've struggled for ... 37 1/2 years? About that).
I’ve now got some real serious motivation for getting it under control, although that certaintly hasn't stopped me form stress-eating my way to an early death anyway.
I am an emotional eater. I get stressed, I eat. Which is probably why I lost nearly 140 pounds after my first marriage ended (or as I used to say, "I lost 250 pounds of useless fat. Then I lost 140 pounds.") And why I’ve put on about 50 pounds since Dad got sick then died, and then lost 15 pounds after I dealt with that a bit, only to put on 20 pounds recently because of the "punch-in-the-neck" factor at work. (Background - everyone who pisses me off, I say I'm going to "punch them in the neck." I owe one guy in particular about 75 socks in the adam's apple).
Things have come to a head, in my mind (I could have punned here, I chose not to), and I’m going to try very hard to get serious. See, I was having some intestinal issues for several months. I’m not gonna go into detail, but it wasn’t pretty. I finally went to the family doctor, and was initially diagnosed with Celiac, or gluten intolerance, but was sent to a gastroenterologist to confirm. The gastroenterologist scheduled me for an endoscopic biopsy to confirm the Celiac, and because of a family history of colon cancer, a fun little alien probe. Yippee! I was twirked, mostly because he instructed me to go back on gluten to re-damage my system so my biopsy results wouldn’t be skewed, but I went ahead and went through with it. The doc still couldn’t confirm the Celiac, but assumes I probably have it because I’ve had such a positive response to the gluten-free diet. I have probably just caught it so fast I haven’t damaged my system enough for a biopsy to appropriately pick it up. So that’s encouraging. Or something. But (notice the single t? Chose again not to pun)...
What totally and completely caught me off guard is I apparently have Barrett’s Esophagus. That came totally out of left field. Barrett’s Esophagus, at the stage I have it, is truly nothing more than a pre-pre-cancerous condition. Basically my stomach acid has been pushing up into my esophagus and changing the cells of my esophagus into stomach cells. Except these cells aren’t supposed to exist outside the stomach, so these are foreign objects, hence, a potential cancer risk. At this point, I have no dysplasia whatsoever, so my chances of actually developing esophageal cancer are .5%, very very low. But it’s still enough I’m going to be on GERD (essentially acid reflux, heartburn) medication for the rest of my life.
I have to control GERD I never knew I had, and I have to have regular endoscopies to make sure the condition doesn’t progress to dysplasia, which is when we’re dancing closer to actual cancer. While my chances of actually developing cancer are small, esophageal cancer can be very nasty and has some pretty limited treatment options – essentially, two of them involve forms of radiation to burn out part of the esophageal walls (after which the cancer can still come back), or have part of your esophagus actually removed. Fun fun! I think I’ll pass.
Part of controlling GERD involves weight loss, not eating three hours before bed, not overeating, yadda yadda yadda. So, it’s time for me to really stop relying on that ol’ “Oh, I’m an emotional eater!” crutch and get myself centered. Except I said that late last summer when I was diagnosed, and I haven't yet. Cause I procrastinate. Badly. Er, I procrastinate quite well actually, but you get my drift.
I don’t wanna play with this. I’ve seen firsthand what cancer can do to a person. I was there when my dad gave in to lung cancer. It's not so much that I'm afraid to die that way (not that it'd be my first choice), but I saw how it tore my mother apart, tore my siblings apart, and I felt how it tore me apart. I don't want my family to see it.
So, here goes. I need to find some way get myself under control. Given the way cancer doesn’t just run, it frickin’ gallops, through Dad’s side of the family, if I can remove even one little chance of my children seeing me go in any way even close to the manner in which I saw Dad (and so many other good, loving people) go, I’m going to do it. One of my best chances of removing this particular potential is to get my weight under control, so I need to finally suck it up. Of course "need to" and "going to" are separated by the grand canyon that also exists between my brain and my brownie-grabbin' hands, unfortunately.
When I had the throat poke/alien butt probe on Aug. 24, 2010, I weighed 234. I gave up gluten and budgeted my calories immediately afteward, and got down to 220. Then stress picked up again, and dammit, back to 234.
Ultimately, I want to get down to 180 or 175, somewhere in there. Below 175, I get really stupid looking, all pointy and angular. I hate looking like someone whose cheekbones you can cut cheese on (insert “cut the cheese” joke here - I'm laying the puns in your lap this time). Plus, below 175 and my shoulder blades feel like they’re poking through my skin when I try to lay down to sleep, and NO ONE GETS BETWEEN ME AND SLEEP, DAMMIT.
So there. So that’s my goal, and this is how I’m going to stupidly play this out.
On with the show. Or train wreck. We’ll see which.
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