Friday, March 26, 2010

Don't Rain on My Pureed

My bariatric surgery was not the warm, fuzzy, “I will hold your hand and walk you through this” kind of doctor, and he didn’t have to be, because he was just that good. His reputation and his success rate allowed him to be the coldest, most heartless human being in the universe because his results spoke for themselves. I could totally picture him with perfectly coiffed hair and a bad ass tan, strutting around on Greys Anatomy with his “I am gonna be the new chief, perform all the best surgeries, and bang all the hot young interns” arrogance. The day he came in for the initial consultation, he managed to speak to a room filled with fat people and not once make eye contact. When I went in for my pre-surgical consult, my husband and I sat there in uncomfortable silence as he wrote down pages full of info about me (which I found strangely amusing since he didn’t KNOW me!), tapped on my abdomen a few times, quickly pointed out that the incisions would be here, here, here and here without actually looking at my abdomen and then ran out of the room. I’m pretty sure he a narcissistic sociopath with a genius IQ who still thinks girls have cooties but I didn’t care. He got the job done.

One of the incisions I have is directly below my boob. Anyone that knows me, knows it took some assistance to make this incision. One to hold the boob (what a tough job!) and one to make the incision and insert the scope-like thingamabob. Now, at the the risk of sounding conceited or full of myself, I am just going to take a minute to point out that 35 years, two kids, and extra weight have not diminished the bad assedness of my rack. They are pretty fantastic. Which is WHY I am telling you this story about my surgeon.

The morning after surgery he came in wide eyed, with a grin from ear to ear, to see how I was feeling and I swear on everything holy, he never once looked at my face. He focused intently about 6” south of my eyes the ENTIRE time. It was a little disconcerting and wee bit creepy, yet oddly flattering at the same time.

If I had known all I had to do to get him to warm up and seem mildly approachable all those months before surgery was give him a view of the goods, I would have attended all of my meetings topless.

In any case, I had my one week check on Wednesday and everything went off without a hitch. She said I am rocking the recovery process and far exceeding their expectations. She warned me against overdoing it and burning out, and most importantly (and I never thought I would be happy about this), she told me I could eat pureed foods!! I know that in general it sounds gross, but pureed tuna or chicken is still a cut above protein shakes and pudding cups all day. Plus I can have scrambled egg whites and mashed potatoes and some veggies! It’s food Nirvana for this eating impaired fat girl.

After time, does my food cherry grow back? When my year sentence is up, and I can partake in a lovely cheeseburger or a small order of fries once again, will it hurt? Will I feel dirty after? Do I have to bring protection? It’s been a long time since I’ve been a food virgin. I hope I remember how to do it.

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