I'm not in the P.R. business for the weight-loss industry, but I might as well be. I get so many pats on the back and "atta girls" these days that I struggle with any sign that I might not be basking in Perfectland.
I've been living in the adjoining community of Painville for a couple of days and I'm slightly amused at how difficult it's getting for me to acknowledge that something's wrong. I can write that this surgery isn't an overnight cure, but there's a strong temptation to pretend that it has solved everything from PMS to the cracks in my new driveway.
And I don't think it's all the fault of my delusions and denial. All my life, every ill I had was associated with excess weight. I remember the Jordanian doctor with the heavy accent leaning over my bed when I was in college: "Why you have headache? You think you gain weight and it give you headache?"
And so started a lifetime of weight-related medical questions:
- With a Southern accent: You got painful cramps, hon? You think your weight gain might have something to do with it?
- With no accent: You got infertility? You think that extra weight gain coupled with the fact that you are currently not seeing anyone (hence, not having sex) might have something to do with it? Let's concentrate on losing some weight and finding a father, whataya say? (Five pregnancies later, I must say finding a father was a miracle cure for conception woes.)
- With a jerk's accent: You got degenerative back disease? Well, it's never going to get better until you lose some weight. There's nothing I can do for you. (I later formally requested that this practice "bite me" a little lower than the disc rupture at L3-4.)
Of course some of that stuff has been embellished cause it's 1 a.m., the plain truth is so dull and Lortab seems to bring out my creative side, but it does illustrate that I've been told everything comes back to weight and I've finally had some real success at weight loss. So why do I hurt?
I guess Dr. Leblanc forgot to use his magic wand on August 23 and some things will still have to wait their turn in this progress. It just doesn't happen overnight. Duh, Frances!
Until all becomes perfect in this world, I have to pick up the phone and tell "reality doctor" (PCP, Dr. Melancon) that my lower back pain is nearly unbearable and my blood pressure is a tad "high." Ok, my definition of tad: I woke in the night and took it. The cuff reinflated itself three times before finally popping off my wrist and flying across the room. Tad.
My rationale in this blog entry was to first admit to you (my faithful readers) that I'm not a Perfect 10 and give myself enough grace to admit that I might need some help. Couldn't I just pick up the phone? Your answer to that question will be truly based on how long you have known me. If you've never met me, let's just say I'm a little "ambitious" about everything and my head is "hard like rock."
Pain is a great wake up call. Right now I'm getting the message that 50 pounds is just a start and I still have lots of work to do as I take the proverbial one day at a time.
Later note: Hey, I didn't want to burn another day's entry on this, but I spent most of the day in bed and I feel much better. Good thing, my PCP's office is out until Friday. I think I will live until then. I'll follow the sage advice. Me: "Doctor, doctor, it hurts when I over-do it." Doctor: "Don't do it." (and duh!)