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Dragon Slayers

When I first learned that my initial band adjustment was going to be four weeks after a whale’s wake of hunger that had kicked in, I was a little disturbed. I was in fact terrified that the substantial weight that I had kicked off over the previous weeks would come flooding back with a vengeance and all would be lost (or indeed gained). Then, that fear was replaced with a certain feeling that a challenge had been set - a challenge for me to have one more attempt to combat and defeat the beast that had been haunting me all my life. A chance for me to stare the dragon that is my hunger directly in eyes as I plunged my sword of resistance and self-control into its black heart and watch it crash to the ground. I envisaged my heroic pose as I stood on the reptilian carcass and decapitated it for all villagers to see.     After a whole (almost) day of winning this melodramatic crusade, I tripped and fell on my own bloody sword.     Imagine my joy, when in my death throws I received a call from the life-saving Rhoda to tell me that Mr Byrne’s secretary had actually made a mistake and the appointment had been booked in incorrectly and my adjustment would be in a few days time. Rhoda, the guardian angel that sat on my shoulder that day, is my assigned nutritionist. She gives me the impression that she has never had to defeat her own appetite, being so slender herself - which is why I imagine she is so good in being able to exterminate that state in others. I may well be mistaken in that assumption and could find that she is indeed a past-life big momma. That said, her seemingly clinical detachment from the whole process that I and others attending her “class” are going through leads me to assume that she has never quite been there. No matter - she called with joyous news!     I naturally spent the rest of the week berating myself. I live alone. What else is there to do?     Over the next few days, after the humiliating stumble, I took stock once again and managed to not exactly drown my hunger, but recognise it. With the recognition of the excessive need for sustenance comes a certain self-control that would normally disintegrate as I buried my head in the sand and thought more on my need to satisfy my urges than to maintain or improve my health. Also, having a close date to aim at for the band fill gave me that little more encouragement to hold off from the recently emptied larder.     So, Saturday morning came and I marched defiantly into the hospital. For those that have not recognised, my love of acting ensures that I can’t just “walk into the hospital”. That just wouldn’t be luvvie enough darling! So, I walked defiantly (perhaps even majestically) into the hospital. I took my seat in the waiting room and waited for the moment when I would take the next step on the road to recovery. As I waited, I started to get a little nervous about the impending appointment. As I mentioned in a previous post, I am a terrible coward. I started to fear the obvious needle that was amplifying in my mind into a rusty bayonet. Then I started to insanely ponder about the possibility that if the band was over-filled it would explode and send shards of medical prosthesis into my now rapidly beating heart. I had to take my mind off such ridiculous meanderings, so I took hold of my iPhone and Twittered something juvenile about small pricks and my forthcoming swallowing abilities. At the tender age of thirty six, I like to think I can publish puerile innuendo along with the best of them.     Mr Byrne, the surgeon that performed the operation and the recent object of my total gratitude, walked into the hospital. A knight in the shining armour of a rather expensive looking suit. He approached the receptionist to ask where he could park his steed called Range Rover. After leaving again to settle her into the stables of the private car park, he came back to check into his non-permanent residence of the private hospital. As he walked past, he greeted me…then another two people in the room. It dawned on me - they had been sitting next to me in quiet consideration of the same fate. These were the same people that had been under the knife that day at the end of February. They were fellow bandsters! We all shuffled in our seats and returned to the inner sanctums of our own contemplation.     I was immediately called in. The time had come.     When I first met Mr Byrne, he seemed a very cold and aloof person. His distant emotional approach caused me a little concern. I rather xenophobically assumed he was German. But, having met a few Germans, I now realise they are not quite as cool and emotionally reserved as Indiana Jones had led me to believe. The surgery day reaffirmed my opinion that his bedside manner was a little chilly. However, he was now an entirely different person. He was affable and entirely friendly. I confirmed my thoughts of the last month. I very much doubted that anyone would like to get to friendly with someone they were about to slice up and put their life in your hands. It would be much easier to play around with the offal of someone who was more of a statistic than a person. So, at this visit, I was happy to see he was indeed a human and not a weight-loss designated cyborg.     After an initial bout of banter, I was invited to lay on his bed. As much as I have yearned for similar situations with the occasional lady-friend, I mounted the tissue-lined trolley with a tad less excitement.     I made the mistake of briefly glancing over to see the preparations that were underway. My fears of a bayonet were well founded. I had never seen such a thing! Before I wonder off into what seems like another tirade of smutty double-entendre, I must confirm that I am describing the medical syringe that he was filling with saline. The needle was pretty much akin to a Biro pen. I tensed up and shut up.     With his newly found amiability, he attempted to ease my tension (please people…gutter minds!). He said that I would feel a small scratch and I tensed every muscle in my body as I awaited the stabbing sensation. I started to wonder how long he would take faffing around before I felt the imminent piercing. As I wondered, he walked back to his desk saying it was all done. What?! I felt nothing. “Bloody hell”, I pondered to myself. I really need to insert a little courage into my life before I tremble to death. Oh my lord..do you think I could tremble to death!?     Mr Byrne, then turned round and proclaimed “Strawberry or Raspberry?” - he was offering me a low-fat yogurt! How very nice of him.     It was apparently time to see if the 4cc of saline pumped into my band was enough to cause ample restriction to help and not hinder. If I could swallow about half the pot without throwing it back into my lap, it would be alright for me to go home. If it did end up all down my shirt, he may need to deflate the band slightly. I was shown to the waiting room, where I could self-consciously chow down on the chosen Strawberry, while he attended to one of his other flock.     As I sat down, I tried to think of a way that I could casually open a pot of yogurt in a waiting room filled with strangers (probably in for a variety of consultations unrelated to weight loss) without them assuming I was a glutton unable to eat in the privacy of my own home. There was no way. I just had to turn the pot slightly so that “low-fat” was visible to all and sundry and read the paper casually as I spooned it in carefully.     By the time I had eaten half the pot, I had read quite a lot of the news and fifteen minutes had passed. Was this possible? Was I feeling…full?! On half a pot of yogurt!! I nearly wept. It seemed as if the dragon had been finally slain. The effect was immediate and astounding.     A lady sat very sheepishly opposite me. She produced a small pot of yogurt. I gave her a knowing smile and raised my half full pot in a toast to our new adjustment. And there we sat for a few minutes discussing our experience to date, until Mr Byrne came out to give us the all clear to go home. He pointed out that he was going on holiday for a week the next day - so if we had an urgent need for deflation…could we have it in the next few hours.     As I sit from the comfortable position of having been “adjusted” and see how pathetic my struggle against hunger was last week, I can perhaps understand a little why the majority of naturally lean people look down on us more fleshy creatures. With the benefit of having a suppressed appetite - the huge emotional strain of over hunger looks ridiculous. I looks like an easy-to-conquer and dare I say lazy affliction. However, having been involved in the fight, I know very differently.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
bfrancis

bfrancis

5
 

Yes I Can

I’m suffering. I’m rubbish. I’m a failure. I can’t do it.   I didn’t think I should write about this on a weight loss surgery blog as it doesn’t entirely have relevance. Especially as I signed out almost two months ago saying I wouldn’t be writing any more. Ah, but how the slow winter nights of insomnia have a way of thrusting the urge to splurge upon one’s frame.   So, why am I suffering? Why am I rubbish? A failure? And what exactly can’t I do? All will be revealed in the next exciting paragraph.   With as much stalling as I can muster – I am slowly coming to the painful realisation that I might well be an alcoholic.   Ouch. Did I say that?   Well – I may not be an alcoholic, but indeed I am a heavy drinker. All who know me and love or hate me will vouch for that very fact. But when it comes to being a true alcoholic – the definitions seem so muddy, I am not sure. Or am I?   I have no withdrawal symptoms when I stop and I am not dependent, but – I continue to drink despite the negative social effects, despite the financial drain on my less than healthy financial state and despite the effects it has on my health. This is where I am stretching the relevance to a weight loss issue. But lately, I am wondering whether it is more closely linked than I initially thought.   Over the last few months, my progress into the halls of The Temple of Normal BMI has halted. My eating has lessened and my exercise has increased. My drinking has also picked up a tad. Goddammit, there lies the big bloody bastard bugger-face staring me straight in the eyes. I know it’s there. I can see it plainly and simply. Alcohol is causing me to not lose weight, despite being over-tightened on the band front.   Alcohol is causing me to slowly lose friends. Alcohol is causing me to lose money. Alcohol is having great effects on my family life and alcohol is causing me to hate myself.   So you can see the attraction I have to it, eh!   I am writing this because I am so disappointed in myself and have used this outlet to vent and eventually feel better about the problems at hand. However, I don’t think this problem is going to be sorted by vitriolic venting.   What has become clear in this whole gastric band journey is the addiction I had to food – and probably still do. You may well catch me of an evening desperately trying to eat a juicy steak. After each mouthful – running to the lavatory to expel what I have just swallowed as my band is currently just a little too tight. I could easily eat less cumbersome things to ensure ease of passage – but I want the steak. And I will return to the plate and repeat the same procedure perhaps four or five times. Because the band hasn’t cured my need to satisfy my desire for flesh! But it has offered me a way to control it should I so desire. It has helped me realise my addiction more than anything else. A knowledge which I am grateful for; but sometimes a little foolhardy with. I have so far, despite my pitfalls and apparent bulimic state, been relatively good with all other food (I won’t bore you with my chocolate rushes).   Booze on the other hand has no control in place. I am at its mercy. In fact, I am at MY mercy. Let’s face it – I decide when to drink – I am aware and I am fully conscious of what it is doing.   I was under the grand illusions as I started to lose weight that I would quit drinking. I know the reason I do it and it is sadly very simple. I do it because I am terribly shy. When I have had a drink however, I am quite the opposite. I become bombastic, gregarious and hugely annoying and people, despite their best efforts, can’t fail to notice me. Something in me likes that. The shy retiring giant hates being shy and retiring and craves people to remember him. Even if it means the memories for them are bad and the memories for me are non-existent.   I figured it would be the end to my drinking because I wouldn’t be so shy. Losing weight would give me more confidence and make me more outgoing and allow me to stand tall and have conversations with people on an equal standing knowing that they were talking to a person, not a walrus. But, such is life that when a walrus loses weight – it is still a walrus. I am still painfully shy and I still find it difficult to talk to people. Maybe years of fatness have ingrained shyness into my psyche or maybe I am just shy because I am.   The gastric band has given me a great opportunity to overcome some of my demons. An opportunity that I sometimes abuse and take for granted – time has a wonderful way of letting one forget their blessings. What it hasn’t done is offer me a cure for all of my other failings. Perhaps writing this will be the first step on another journey of self-discovery and perhaps it will just be another piece of prose that adds to my posthumous biography that will never be written.   I decided to write this because I do feel it is of relevance to people considering having the surgery as it has shown me that I was perhaps a little over-eager to consider it the answer to my problems instead of a pretty good guide to help me find my own answers – a guide that is sometimes ignored.   So, after that marathon outpouring of in most angst and in summation:   I’m suffering - yes I am, but I am admitting I need help, so my suffering on that side of things is perhaps no longer in silence and it may well help my future efforts.   I’m rubbish - yes again. But, I know I have a way to crawl out of the trash can. It’s just up to me to do it.   I’m a failure - not entirely, because it’s not yet over. Maybe I can turn things around.   I can’t do it - Yes I can.   Originally posted at: www.lapbandblog.org.uk
bfrancis

bfrancis

7
 

What They Didn't Tell You - Part 1

Having been in this game for only about 2 months now, I feel somewhat reticent to write on the subject of slimming down - but having dropped over 50lbs in eight weeks, I am perhaps able to see the results more clearly than had I lost weight more slowly. A large drop in a small timescale has left my memories of Billy Bunterdom less hazy that most. For all those sending me cyber-daggers as they read about the initial success, please relax in the knowledge that my primary sprint has turned into a deatlhy crawl and that you have plenty of time to catch up. Remember the tale of The Tortoise & the Hare…?   Having discussed much of this in length with another one of my close buddies and actor friends, Mr Christopher Barlow, I figured it would be an interesting topic to scribe aimlessly about. I met Chris about 18 months ago during a production I was staging of The Merchant of Venice and in that time, without any surgical assistance whatsoever, he has managed to shed almost 100lbs. So, I was quietly confident that our shared experience of weight loss was one that many people would be going through also.   This article is simply about the things one tends to experience during weight loss that may not have been instantly obvious when starting out on the journey. I also must take this opportunity in the proceedings to advise all ladies and those of a sensitive nature, that during this article, I will be slightly touching upon male genitals (excuse the deliberate and well intended pun).   Probably, the biggest issue faced during The Sheddage, has been confidence. For all those yet to embark on the cruise upon SS Not-so-Titanic, you will probably be assuming that I mean - with weight loss comes confidence. Let me stop you there, rewind the tape (or DVD if you are too young to remember tape) and correct that now. What I actually mean is, the speed you lose weight seems to have no bearing on the speed you gain your confidence. None whatsoever.   I am very much aware that I look very different having lost the weight that I have done recently and over the past two weeks have been paid slightly more attention by the opposite sex. Not much - but slightly more. I am also able to wear my clothes (purchased from a normal shop!) in a more publically acceptable way. Shirt tucked in instead of Smock-central, a la Demis Roussos. Not to mention that Hawaiian shirts are no longer part of my wardrobe. I now only have two chins instead of four and all in all - I know that I look better. However, I don’t seem to be able to let that knowledge boost my confidence.   When anyone catches my eye, I automatically assume they are thinking the worse. My posture is still uncomfortably poor as I try to hide my 6′3” frame away from people’s seemingly accusatory glares. I drink far more than I should of an evening just so I can talk to people. All in all, I would consider myself an emotional wreck! Why wasn’t my 50lbs of flab converted into 50lbs of pride? I know deep down that it should have been.   Obviously enough, the years of self-hatred and self-consciousness that is often hidden beneath The Jolly Fat Man image, takes far longer to heal and be rebuilt as one gets used to the new life. Just beware when you start out - it will take longer and quite a lot of effort to fix that part - but it will no doubt be fixed in time.   Another thing they don’t tell you is what you should do with your day once eating is out. You will get so very restless because time seems that much longer without a side of cow in your mouth! Boredom it is not. I find the whole idea of eating a lot very opposed to my life now - I don’t miss it and I don’t crave any kind of forbidden mastication. What I do crave, is something to replace those moments of my life when I would automatically reach for a packet of crisps (or chips for those across the water), just to pass the time. Luckily enough, I have hobbies that have come to the rescue. I have been more prolific in my music writing over the past two months than I have ever been. I wrote ten songs yesterday and I do believe my skills at such things are getting better. And all because, I don’t want to snack.   So - before you start off - prepare yourself a list of things to do in the quiet, fidgety moments. Our lives are hectic these days - but those quiet times will come and you will need to have something to entertain your grey matter or risk going ever-so-slightly mad.   At this juncture, people who do not need to hear about “man bits” can turn off. I write this for the men out there that need that extra little kick before they decide whether weight loss is right for them. I suppose it may well interest their lovers also…   Imagine, if you will, a tree. A tree that has stood the test of time in a garden, overlooked perhaps by an all girls school. Each day, the tree would look up to the sun and stretch out its branches to welcome the new dawn, as the sun beat down upon the boughs. Because the gardener loved the tree so much, he used to ensure that its roots were well tended and that the soil below was well stocked. So nervous was he that his pride and joy would topple, that he overlaid much of the lower section of the trunk with turf and soil. This made the tree look very small indeed. But the tree didn’t seem to notice, or even mind. He just enjoyed the occasional attention he sometimes received!   However, the girls at the school were mean. They used to look out of their dormitories and laugh. Laugh at the size of this little tree. The tree spent many days listening to the laughter and brushing it off as a fundamental fact of life. “They can laugh” thought the tree, “but that is how God built me, and there is nothing I can do about it”. But the gardener saw the tree slowly wilt over the years with sadness, as his own words of support no longer seemed to be helping.   So, one day, the gardener decided that he would help the tree. He woke up bright and early and set about removing much of the soil from around the trunk, exposing far more of the tree than had ever been visible before. When the horrid girls woke up in the morning and leaned out of the window to laugh at the tiny tree, they were shocked to see that it had become so big - they all ran away screaming. This made the tree very happy. It was also fair to point out that the gardener still prays to this very day that that the tree doesn’t fall down after this rather quick soil loss…   Enough said?   So - there are things to think about and some things that I am sure to find out about as I delve further into this brave new world. I suppose you can guess which particular surprise I am most happy about in a shallow man kind of way - but who knows, there may well be more deep Zen and emotionally deserving surprises just around the corner - at which point I may write a part 2!   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
bfrancis

bfrancis

11
 

Goodbye

I recently received some distressing news that has meant that I will be bringing this blog to a close for the foreseeable future. The news from my doctor was sudden and very sharp.   Having been basking in the speedy weight loss glory that the Lap Band enabled me to have has been nothing short of amazing for me. But it was over the last couple of months that I noticed a change in my eating habits and frame reduction. I have been eating less, feeling unwell and not losing any weight at all. This prompted a visit to the doctor. A visit that left me cold.   After the array of basic tests that were performed on me – a diagnosis was delivered in perhaps the worst bedside manner that any man could muster.   “Well Mr Francis”, the doctor sternly opened with. “I don’t think we need any blood tests, it’s pretty obvious what the problem is”. The words left me curious and somewhat scared.   “You need to pay close attention to me here, as I am going to say something that may well initially distress you”.   I braced myself for the worst possible scenario.   “You are going to…”   Time stopped – I knew exactly what he was going to say…and he confirmed my worst fears in just a few words…   “You are going to…have to start exercising”.   Oh god no.   I left the surgery having just been diagnosed with terminal laziness.   I reached out for sympathy when I got home – but there was none to be had. I was in this on my own.   After the initial shock subsided, I realised that perhaps I had been far too melodramatic for anyone to pay attention to; melodrama that may well have come across in the above prose, who knows?   I moved through the stages of grief pretty quickly.   Denial came and went in a brief flash – “What does that quack know? I have a gastric band godammit!”   No sooner had denial crossed my mind, that the thought of complaining to the Medical Council about his delivery of such a ridiculous prognosis entered my mind. I would demand that he was struck off immediately!   The angry stage left just as speedily as it came and was replaced with bargaining. I tried to think of ways I could bribe him to give me magical beans that would speed up my metabolism in a less unhealthy way than amphetamines. I realised there were no such beans.   And so, by the time I arrived home, bargaining was replaced by depression. The very thought of changing my sedentary life style to something less stagnant left me in need of a pantry populated with Prozac.   Self-pity is a funny thing. It’s heroically tedious. This led to the fifth and final stage, acceptance.   I got very bored of being in a black mood over something as trivial as raising my heart rate above sluggish. I turned myself around very quickly with some financial therapy and a new excercise bike. Only forty kilometers and a rather large bucket of sweat later – I am convinced that I may well start feeling excited about this whole thing again. I am very easily bored – and may well find myself in everlasting ennui with my new excercise machine – but, if I do, I am going to do my utmost to replace it with something that will keep this new life that the Lap Band has offered me.   I entitled this article Goodbye because I feel I have reached the end of scribing anything useful to the weight-loss community and I would only be serving to fill empty space with nonsensical rambles. As per this one. I may well return for an update if and when I feel there is something of relevance to say in relation to this blog – but until then, I sign off.   I do hope you have enjoyed these stories or found them interesting, useful or reminiscent of your own experiences. If not, then I pity the fact that you have read this far! Feel free to make cyber-friends with me on Facebook, Twitter or see my website.   Goodbye fair fellow and wannabe fellow banders, I wish you success and pleasant trails on your life ahead! Ben x   Originally posted at www.lapbandforum.org.uk
bfrancis

bfrancis

11
 

Shh...don't tell anyone!

Today’s exciting instalment does not revolve around me. In fact, it’s not exciting either. And indeed, I wrote it yesterday. So it’s not actually today’s…let’s move on.   Of late, I have had several people contact me from the gastric band communes across the globe commenting about our shared experiences. One good thing about this procedure is that it is encourages people to seek out fellow bandibulars to discuss what we are going through or are likely to go through and in doing so, encourages virtual friendships – which is a decent first step to real-life friendships I suppose.   This urge to find like minded bandicles seems to have its roots firmly entrenched in the shame that a lot of people still seem to have with the operation. The fact that I know there are an awful lot of people out there even in my own home town that have had it done but are not willing to discuss it. This article will hopefully act as commentary rather than a soap box and is written from the perspective of someone who has gone through this in public view – with friends, family and even the unfortunates who really have no interest whatsoever, but find themselves under the hypnotic cast of my conversation on the subject (and by that I mean my incessant drunken ramblings that many people have been subject to).   When I set about researching the surgery – I too was part of the secret sect – those that have taken an oath of silence concerning their desires to seek out help on the road to fatlightenment. I used to read about people’s experiences on the Internet discussion boards and delete all history and temporary browsing files as if I had been partaking in pornographic fun times. What if somebody found out that I was looking at Lap Band surgery – oh the shame!   It was only when I had decided to definitely go ahead and undergo the procedure that I looked at the experiences of the like of Fern Britten and see the mistakes made previously by others before me. For the non-UK contingent out there – Fern Britten is a TV personality over here that was banded and decided it was a good idea (either by her own volition or by her press team’s insistence) to not admit to having it done. In fact, she even went so far as to release an exercise video pushing the fact that she lost all her weight on her own. This led to a big public outcry when they found out she had had surgery. I believe it also did a lot of damage to the perception of gastric bands in the UK for a while after also. It became a bit of a shameful stigma and taboo.   Now, I understand the urge to keep it quiet. It struck me in the first phases of my Passage to Thindia that I had failed on my quest by resorting to medical help. I had not been strong enough to do it on my own and my personality was so weak that I just didn’t have the ability to succeed in losing my excess weight. I suppose there is a small part of me that still feels that. But, it is a very small part indeed. I would have loved to have had the motivation, the will power and the control without going through the operation. Anyone would. But, the simple fact of the matter is – I didn’t.   I read an interview with Richard Branson once, where he proclaimed that a turning point in his life was when he started to admit that he had weaknesses. When he realised he was unable to do things that others could. In doing so, he brought on board people with skills that he lacked to fill the gaps. And this act of self-awareness allowed him to succeed. Along with the discovery of Mike Oldfield. This is the way I look at the band. I have hired a thick-necked doorman that stands at the entrance to the nightclub that is my stomach and send the trouble makers on their way. Allowing me to get on and run the bar. Pouring drinks – doing what I do well.   I have found that my openness about the surgery has caused an awful lot of interest from almost everyone I talk to. Morbid curiosity about the practicalities mainly – but nonetheless, a very healthy interest. Most have also congratulated me on taking the steps to do something about my weight. It may well not be their cup of tea, but I am lucky to surround myself with nice people who seem to believe that I did the right thing. People who would no doubt by upset if I passed away too soon because of my stegosaurus eating habits of a bygone era. My over-sensitive and paranoid nature has made me obviously look at some people and silently accuse them of judging me as a failure – but I imagine that would have been there had I lost the weight naturally and unaided. That’s just one of my personality traits and failings.   When people write to me and ask me to not announce on their Facebook pages or the like that they have had surgery upsets me for a couple of reasons. Firstly – of course I wouldn’t do that. That’s not the way it works with me. I will proudly announce my own inner-most thoughts and dark secrets – but leave the revealing of yours, to you. The other reason I am dismayed (over-exaggeration is a lovely thing) is that I believe you are painting yourself into a corner. The surgery can cause such a dramatic change that the deep dark secret will eventually surface. Through suspicion or evidence – people will start to whisper and you will probably find yourself in an awkward position of having to come out of the banded closet and admit your procedure under scrutiny and shame. Fuelling the undeserved frowns that the band already seems to engender. I guarantee that I know of at least two local ladies who have had surgery but won’t admit it – making them look bad.   My recommendation to anyone undertaking this procedure is be open and honest with everyone. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Where you fall in one area, you rise in another. So what if you weren’t built the same way as the lucky slender – your life experience in being a rotund has no doubt given you the knocks and pain that has given you something that they will never have. And when you eventually become the healthy figure you yearn for – you will have the looks as well as the “great personality” that us tubbies have always been accused of having…something that natural beauties always seem to lack in abundance.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
bfrancis

bfrancis

6
 

Proof is in the Low Fat Pudding

Well, didn’t I get a shock yesterday!   My first venture into on-screen acting arrived in a neatly packaged DVD. Regular readers may well remember that I discussed the filming of this back in a post in February, “Killing With Kindness“. Seeing myself on screen five stone heavier was a bit of an eye-opener.   It’s not as if I was blind when I was that heavy – but when you are actually behind all that weight, there is a certain amount of self-preservation that must go on in one’s mind when you look at yourself in the mirror. Something must trigger to make the brain think it’s really not all that bad which protects you from giving in and throwing yourself out of the window and causing much death and destruction below. But looking at it from this side of the chubby fence…it was that bad indeed.   Here is a comparison picture… Now, I realise that there are heavier people than I was back then and indeed, lighter people than I am now – but by the Holy Staff of St Cheeseburger – why couldn’t I see what I was doing to myself?!   I can only imagine that I didn’t want to see it. Or was it that the road to change was so bloody hard? Was it blindness by fear? Was it because I could put a brave face on it and convince myself that it really didn’t matter…and let’s face it – apart from the verbal digs and health risks – it didn’t. I was happy in a relationship, with three wonderful children and always looking at the bright side of life – I was always happy and laughing. And that is probably why it didn’t matter. Life was good. I just didn’t realise how much better it could be.   I’m out of the relationship now and, thankfully, on great terms with my ex(es) and seeing my children whenever I want. I have a much better prognosis for living past 50 (touch wood) and I feel bloody great. It is very worrying to see pictures and videos of me pre-band and has made me thankful once again for the advances in medicine that have allowed me to get to where I am today (and for the marvels of interest-free credit from the private hospital!).   Having just returned from a trip to my most favourite place in the world, Paris, I need to get myself back in the mindset of eating properly again. I took five days off from watching what I eat and spent far too many times in the cafe toilets throwing up because I was eating incredibly delicious and fattening food much too quickly for my band restriction. On top of that, the toilets were more often than not the disgusting holes in the floor that Europeans seem far too happy with for civilised people. Bad experiences all round!   So, here I am after having watched my former fat self in a short film and reinvigorated on to my weight loss programme once again. Hovering around 70lbs down and ten inches off my waist, I am very much looking forward to losing the rest of the “muffin top” that sits around my belt over the next few months and will do so with a renewed avoid-the-horrible-French-holes-in-the-floor vigour!   For those that are interested in seeing me portray a very camp speed dating host in the film…please feel free to visit my new channel on YouTube at YouTube - BenedictFrancis's Channel where you can see a couple of videos of me at my heaviest and most mincing!   Here’s to hindsight…what a wonderful concept!   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
bfrancis

bfrancis

8
 

Shout to the Top!

I figured the time was nigh to write a overview and summary on my thoughts so far on this whole gastric band thing. In doing so, I will try to avoid my usual rapier wit and innuendo to get my message across!   I was a bit concerned to have feedback on my last blog entry suggesting that my words had managed to put her in a position of thinking again about going through the operation. I was concerned because it seems that in my attempt to be as open and honest about the things I have experienced along the way, I seem to have not got my real message across.   I will get the very point of this article out the way at the start so that as many people read this as possible:   Deciding to opt for the gastric band is simply ONE OF THE BEST THINGS I HAVE EVER DONE.   Now, you can read on to find out why, or carry on browsing the rest of the Internet; all I ask is that you believe the above bold, italicised and capitalised words.   I have spent much of my writing hours talking about the experiences of having this implement fitted inside my not-so-cavernous-anymore body. I have dwelled upon the things that I have experienced that were new to me and sometimes hovered around the more negative experiences such as the initial pain and regurgitation - the things we all would like to do without in a perfect world. What it seems people are forgetting are the negatives and experiences I wrote about at the start and the experiences many of you have gone through or are living through right now; the days before the operation.   The surgery carries some risks and is not the most utopian solution one could wish for - but it has proved to be the best option for me.   I would take the discomfort and learning procedure of having to live with the band any time if it meant that I never have to be fat again. I don't care if people who don't understand about this operation call me a failure. I would rather be a healthy "failure" in their eyes than a miserable, morbidly obese, diabetic, fat "failure" with a decreased expected life span. Simple and easy.   The discomfort I felt along the way was nothing compared to the discomfort of fat. Nothing at all. I wrote about it all because it was new and because I had never felt it before. This was the point of my blog - to discuss my thoughts with anyone who wanted to read about what was going on in my mind. Therapy by blogging.   I have been in the fortunate position of having my band fitted and tightened almost perfectly and have lost weight steadily and, some would say, too speedily. But for me, it has shown me the benefits of being thinner more so than if I had lost it gradually over two years - I remember being 70lbs heavier just three months ago. I remember it very clearly and vividly.   Each month I have been dropping trouser sizes. I have had wonderful comments from people week in and week out. I have had to throw away clothes that are far too big and have been able to replace them in normal shops instead of humiliating shops purpose built for fat people. I have gone through the embarrassing "morbidly obese" category, whizzed on through "obese" and am currently travelling through "overweight" on my way to the final destination of "normal". I have been approached by women - something that simply never happened before. I have cut my grocery shopping bills down from incomprehensible levels to just a few pounds a week. I have been more creative and productive with my new state of mind and boosted confidence. I have been feeling less ill and achey. Mainly though, above all else, I am happy. I reiterate and proclaim once again: I AM HAPPY!   Having my eldest child tell me she enjoys cuddling me now because her arms meet and she can hold all of me in one go was a huge reaffirmation that this was the best decision.   If the cost of all that is relearning eating habits and some discomfort once in a while when I get it wrong - it's not much of a price to pay at all. In fact it's no price. It's a steal.   Looking back over the course of the last few months and the previous 15 years I know that I simply would not be on my way to healthy if it wasn't for the band. My will power simply wasn't strong enough without it. My brain chemicals simply wouldn't send out the right signals to help me out like the majority of healthy people's do. Maybe in a few years there will be a more acceptable way for the public to lose weight. A magic pill that actually works (rather than claims to work but really just makes you mess yourself or commit suicide). A free personal trainer given out with every pack of Special K (which would personally have made me mess myself or commit suicide). But, this band works for me and I stand up and recommend it to everyone who has failed in their battle to lose weight.   I know there are people out there that have not had such a plain sail with this operation but I will leave it up to you to read about their progress and experiences. I do believe from my previous research though, that the people who don't get along with this procedure are in the unfortunate minority.   I am proud to admit to anyone and everyone that I have had my Lap Band and am happy for people to think what they like about my reasons behind doing it. I also recommend to those that are hiding the operation from friends and family (you know who you are!) that they come out of the gastric closet - there is nothing to be ashamed of. Help others - stand up, make your voice heard and be proud!   As The Style Council put it so perfectly: Shout to the Top!   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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3
 

What's on the Inside?

For those few and far between people who actually read this blog, you may have noticed I am slowing down on my initial spurt and outpouring of psychological literary sticking plasters. This is not because I am getting bored with the process of scribing my thoughts down or that I am filling my time with more fulfilling activities. It is simply because I seem to be getting used to this whole new world of eating to live and not living to eat. The “new experiences” are now relatively few and far between. I don’t want to re-cover old ground and I don’t intend to write much about that which bears no relevance on my new lap band lifestyle. That said, I love the new album by The Leisure Society!   Having recently had another band fill, I found that the re-education process of controlling intake is something that is, paradoxically, a constant variable. However (even in the knowledge that this is something I will take some time to get used to in its entirety with the varying changes) finding out about ten days ago that I was able to eat as much as most people at the table could, did fill me with fear and dread. Of course, my assumptions were that of a paranoid and over-sensitive fool: Had my band fallen off? Had my stomach stretched and negated the effects of the surgery? Had my internal organs rewired themselves because they missed KFC that much?   1.5ml of saline reminded me that I was indeed being an idiot.   I was made aware by my surgeon that fat people don’t just hold fat on their bellies, chins and thighs. Organs that sit delicately inside you are also subject to becoming individually overweight. The suggestion was that as I had lost so much weight so quickly, the area that the band was wrapped around on my stomach had lost a layer of fat also - hence increasing the dilation and reducing the band’s effectiveness. This theory seems to also be confirmed by the display of plastinisation by that weird fedora-donned German doctor. His demonstration of the differences between the internal organs of an ex-healthy person and a not-so-healthy-mainly-because-they-are-dead fat chap show huge variations in size and lardy colours of their internal organs. I never knew I had fat behind the fat. This would also explain why people were surprised whenever I told them how much I weighed - a lot of my butter was out of sight.   It was strangely comforting to be told that I was losing weight from my internal organs (fingers crossed it doesn’t have any such effect on external ones!). It is plain to see the outer weight loss, but knowing your heart is probably operating under less suffocating conditions is somehow more of an achievement to me than another notch down on my trouser belt.   Being saline-squeezed once more has led to a number of slightly embarrassing and uncomfortable blockages as I once again get used to the restriction and what I can and can’t eat. How many chews on a morsel of food I make is once again on my mind - as an extra five mastications can make the difference between normal polite conversation over a meal and an hour of painful regurgitation of very little food and even less polite conversation. It’s a learning process that I imagine I will go through several times across my way to normal as my internal and external flab dissipate and my visible and invisible belts both need adjustment from time to time.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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7
 

Born Again...and Bloody Irritating

I've gone and done it. I have become a hugely annoying member of the Reformed Church of Eating. And, I'm really aggravated with myself for becoming so.   One of my primal vexations in life is the irksome need some people have to spread the word on their own beliefs and religions. Don't get me wrong - if you believe in a god on high or a holy mushroom that sits at the bottom of your garden, I am fine with that and wish you well in your quest for finding a meaning to life - but please, for the love of Fungi, don't push it on other people just so you can strengthen your own faith in something you can't really be too sure about in the first place if you need company on your march to enlightenment.   So, as I sat there like a grumpy old man, getting disturbed by other people doing exactly that kind of preaching - by jingo - I looked in the mirror and realised I've started doing it myself.   Having a gastric band is very much like I imagine being born again is like. You suddenly get the realisation that something else exists out there that is not just the pangs of hunger. You start to appreciate life a lot more and you realise that you can indeed beat the demons. The Nirvana of Slender is within everyone's grasp and the path to that Utopia has been mapped out before you. What you also start to realise is, those that have not had The Enlightenment are heading to a world of fire and brimstone and even worse...flabby thighs.   "To be honest, you're probably lining your arteries with a well planned excuse for a heart attack there", I heard myself not only think - but actually say. "Those chips are soaked in unnecessary fats - it's far worse than smoking", the hypocritical ex-eater pointed out.   When people hear me reciting my Gospel from the Bible of St Lapsicum Bandicum, immediately their reaction is one of disdain. Of course it is and so it bloody well should be. Look at me. Only being nine weeks out of surgery and sounding like I have any right to suggest that I am able to preach to them about anything healthy. Especially because I am not eating healthily, just less. Especially because I throw any kind of health advice I pretend to offer out the window every time I pick up my trusty and well-used wine glass. Especially because the most exercise I do these days is pouring wine into aforementioned wine glass.   I hate myself for doing it - but I can't seem to be able to stop. When I see people eating excessive amounts - it repulses me. It makes me feel nauseous. It makes me feel that they are gluttons...uh oh! Not only have I become a reformed eater - but I have also become one of those people I despised so much for the way they looked at me at the height of my "weight issue". I have become a fattist.   It's at this point that I would like to say that the above is all very slightly exaggerated for artistic license and for making a point. I don't actually go around belly-bashing, neither do I cowardly stampede everywhere in a white sheet burning extra large bargain buckets in people's gardens. However, I am feeling some sort of misplaced and unrelenting feeling about the use of food as a comfort blanket.   Am I really lashing out at the rotund? How can I be - I am still in the "obese" category. Am I really telling people my belief in my way of eating is any better than theirs? How can I be...it simply isn't.   What I really think is that I am lashing out at food. I have effectively ended my relationship with the bulk of most things nasty and have done so in a highly non-amicable way. It's a bitter divorce, plain and simple.   When I see other people having a relationship with "her", I become wound up and accuse them of wasting their time - "she" will only bring misery and pain. And, as they don't listen or amend their ways, then I start to look down upon their judgement.   As I mentioned in previous posts, I believe this surgery has provided me with more psychological changes and needs for mental adjustment than it has given any physical ones. So much so, it has actually taken me off guard in some areas and has meant that I need to sometimes slap myself and pull it together - usually by writing these novelettes.   I do believe that I am totally unfit to judge anyone else's eating patterns, as I am only a novice myself. A novice that has been given the vehicle, hand-book and personal tutor that other people may not have had the luxury to have. Maybe one day in the future I will be able to speak with confidence about what I have learned from everything to do with this experience - but as it stands at the moment, I am merely a passenger on a fast train home. As I stare bemused, befuddled and amazed out of the window at the rapidly passing scenery, I can not hope to imagine that I have any right to judge the other passengers on their choice of locomotive or driver, as they stand at the stations that I pass by - waiting for their own train to come along.   Here Endeth the Sermon.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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Sliced and Diced

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
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The Itch is Back

It is with much regret that I announce that I have been a very bad boy.   Over the last 8 or so days I have, what is commonly known here in the UK, been on a bender. That is not to say that I urinated on someone of a less than heterosexual persuasion, but I have overdone it on the booze. Every day I have frequented my old stomping ground, Froggies, and have drank myself to a stupor. The itch of needing to drink heavily came back with a vengeance and I scratched that itch very hard indeed. I now feel very bad and in need of a good hard slap.   My excuses will be common place to those who have listened to the wretched before: I am unable to operate life alone; I need to drink in order to talk to people; I prefer looking at life through a bottom of a glass; I'm not drunk, I'm just sleepy - it must be my medication; pish offff...i'mmm fiiine...I ludge you soooo mush!   I have always been a big drinker throughout my entire adult life (and some of my less than adult life) and it has always been part of my persona. People know me as either someone to avoid of a Friday evening or someone who to call when they want to entertain themselves with outlandish human behaviour from a stumbling silver back gorilla. Those that have remained friends with me to date all know it is me. What concerns me is that I thought that this behaviour would stop when I was banded.   How very stupid of me.   The last time I ventured forth, my concerns (and dare I say the concerns of some of my closer friends) turned into fear. I abused the band!   As I stumbled from the dark and dingy pub behind Winchester railway station, named...The Railway, I felt a small pang of hunger. As I marched in my zig-zagging pattern through town my course veered sharply into the local kebab shop. All memories of my band were clearly washed with spirit laced fruit juiced away from my mind. I needed a kebab...because it was habitual.     What a fool was I! I said goodbye to the friends I met in the take away with my usual mix of affection and bad breath and headed out into the night and my 40 minute coiling walk home. This usually takes 25 minutes in a straight line.   Oh the kebab was going to be a treat - I mean it looked so horrible. I wasn't hungry. But it was a habit that needed satisfying. I managed to wipe out half of it before the feeling most lap banders have experienced in the early days of their new life. The iron fist. My eagerness to completely ignore my lack of hunger and need to fulfil the habit made me swallow each of the few mouthfuls pretty much whole. And they all got stuck.   It's not a nice feeling to walk through a cathedral city as lovely as Winchester, clutching onto your chest and trailing a slight vomit path behind you - especially when it is caused by eating like a moron after a major procedure like the gastric band. If I was seen by anyone, they would have caused an ambulance or the police. I was pretty sober after 5 minutes of retching as adrenaline watered down all alcohol in my system and a lovely feeling of drunkenness was replace with terror that I was breaking the band with foolishness.   For those who have yet to experience the fist of fury and its associated side effect of clenched regurgitation, I will briefly expand on it - stop reading if you feel this isn't your kind of thing.   The feeling is almost indescribable - not because of the pain, but because I had never felt it before the operation. It is quite uncomfortable, but I would say it is very far from pain. All I can imagine it is like is the sensation of swallowing a large unchewed bit of tough steak and having it get stuck. Usually (unless you are very unlucky) this stuck feeling disappears quite rapidly to unbanded "users" of food as your stomach and esophagus muscles do their stuff and pull it down or help you cough it up. However, with the band, it's not so straight forward. The peristaltic waves that would have carried the food up or down are pretty much useless in the area where the blockage is. Your band slows natures effectiveness dramatically. As you do start to "flush" (the body is such an amazing piece of work in danger situations) things happen slightly differently than you have been used to also. Whereas the body was once able to rapidly expel all danger in a few swift waves of disgustig material, you are now only able to expel unacidic spittle and recently eaten food. As an experience, it is far more time consuming and very much more uncomfortable - but infinitely more tasty! No bile whatsoever. So, swings and roundabouts there I guess.   So - I woke up in the morning with a huge feel of embarrassment and stupidity. I was able to feel the band was doing its job and that my fears of internal rupture had been unfounded, but I was also left very aware that the risk of damaging the placement and reducing its effectiveness are far too high for me to risk doing that again.   Having done so well to date, I am really quite unsure as to why I when on my drinking binge. Perhaps it was the confidence issues I spoke about last time. Perhaps I am finding that with an obese man's confidence, being chatted to as an almost normal sized man needs a hell of a lot more Dutch courage. Realistically, I think I was feeling very low and went for the easiest "happy maker". Whatever the reason is, it must stop - I can't afford to do that again.   The lap band has been a god send to my will power with food, but it is only that. An aid to beat an addiction with the munchies. It does not cure your hang ups, it does not rid you of any other kind of substance abuse and it certainly does not give you any more common sense than you had before the operation.   I'm putting this one down to a learning experience and hope that the lessons taken away from it are taken heed of by my over-complicated mind.   Needless to say - weight loss for that week was a non-starter.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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Help Me Help You

I am writing this article based on a suggestion by my dear friend and confidant, James Lucas. Or, as I affectionately know him, Jumbo Jim. He’s not a fat man. Just, like most people, slightly overweight. Now, thinking about it, I’m not entirely sure what exactly I am referring to when I proclaim his Jumbo-ness. Perhaps I should stop. Jimmy it will be from here on.     We were discussing exercise machines of all things the other day. Having invested in an elliptical trainer last month, he was interested to see if I was still using it or whether it was now a large clothes horse. I am now in a place in my life where exercise machines are “investments” and not “wastes of money”, so I was happy to report that I was still using it. Maybe not as much as I should. Mainly because of the reason that when I start off on my 5 meter hike, my drying clothes tend to fall off it.     He has been on a number of diets with me over the years. Sometimes, I am very aware that the “diets” that he instigated and we subsequently embarked on, were more of a support to try and help me lose my weight. But, there were times, especially after Christmas festivities, that it would have no doubt been beneficial for him to lose a few “mince pie” pounds too.     We met in 1991, when I moved in with him and his long term girlfriend. It wasn’t long before she moved out. It wasn’t long after that, that I moved out. It wasn’t long after that, that she and I moved in together in the flat above his and subsequently got married. It all sounds horrible and incestuous thinking about it - but he ended up being my best man at the wedding - which made it all so much better!     My father passed away soon after our move in upstairs from Jimmy. His heart had all but given up toward the end of his 49th year, which he spent living with my mum and her second husband (we are incredibly friendly people in this part of the world!). Jimmy was known by everyone as having what one would term as “Foot in Mouth” syndrome. If something wasn’t to be said, it was said by Jimmy. What made it so acutely funny, was watching his face as he uttered misplaced words to people. Being a brash and to-the-point kind of guy, he is incredibly aware of how word can have the power to offend and he is, in his own particular way, very sensitive. I remember one day, soon after my dad’s death, I was helping Jimmy down stairs with a refrigerator. Obviously being “on the larger side”, it wasn’t as easy for me as it was for him and he recognised this. He looked at the sweat breaking out on my forehead and demanded “Come on Benna, let’s stop, you’re about to have a heart a….”. What always makes me laugh about that particular moment was the immediate terror that wrapped his face and he stopped in his verbal tracks staring at me silently mouth wide and prepped for the remaining letters of “attack” to emerge. They never did. The fear he had of having offended me by jibing at heart attacks made me nearly wet myself with laughter. He stood like a scared rabbit in his own headlights for what seemed like an age. I am smiling now just thinking about it - and a wealth of other more classic faux pas he has graced us with over the years. Faux pas on the whole that are not so faux, but are backed up by his amazing reactions of disbelief toward himself afterward.     Jimmy has always been aware of my weight and has valiantly tried to help me avoid the potential “hearta” that I was heading for. He even joined me in a sponsored weight loss that was subsequently picked up by a UK national paper, pointing our website as being one of the top ten websites in cyberspace. This list made it to the offices of the Discovery Health Channel and they broadcast (repeatedly) a 15 minute documentary of what we were doing. Now, being an actor and self-publicist, I adored the attention. However, Jimmy is far removed from the desire for public attention. Son of a farmer, who has castrated many a poor animal in his time, he hates being in the public eye. But, despite this, he was willing to be interviewed for the programme in, what I now recognise as, an effort to help me lose my ample lipid appeal.     After having rambled about my life with Jimmy, I seem to have bypassed the original suggestion he had for this article. But I have done so intentionally to give some background on this wonderful character. His suggestion was to write a piece based on the effect that my lap band is having on people around me.     Going back to our discussion on exercise machines - he advised me that he was bidding on eBay for a rowing machine. How odd, I thought. He hardly ever exercises! My brother also purchased a cross trainer three weeks ago. Hang on a sec - what is happening to the world? My brother usually sits in his dark flat watching films. Why is he exercising now?!     As Jimmy pointed out, the people around me are starting to become very aware that the man they once knew as one of their fattest friends (and perhaps their excuse for over indulging sometimes), was rapidly heading to becoming a normal weight. Suddenly they realised that I may soon be thinner than them!     I am experiencing a number of people around me suddenly becoming very conscious about their own love handles. My gastric band is actually helping THEM to lose weight.     Whether they will keep off the few pounds that they may lose over the coming months remains to be seen. Whether I soon make my suggestion that Jimmy slows down his working days in case HE is the one that actually suffers a “hearta” also remains on the back burner. All I can say is that a health regime has been kick started in and around Winchester due to one small prosthesis that I have had installed inside me. Let’s hope they don’t know anyone heading in for a sex change - I fear the consequences!     So, what started out as an essay on a remarkable ripple effect that is happening around here has ended up a biography on one of my best friends. Here's to friends! Here’s to Mr Jimmy!   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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Guess Who Came to Stay

"I can resist anything except temptation." A typically wonderful quote from Oscar Wilde. A quote that rang trough my head yesterday as I succumbed to the lessening powers of The Band over Mothering Sunday lunch.   As I sat in my favourite restaurant and bar (La Place in Winchester - highly recommended!) I finished off the whole plate of Steak Haché et Frites (hamburger and chips for us lesser mortals). I had sinned and needed to birch myself severely. The reprimand I deserved could not wait. I needed immediate chastisement and nothing should delay the inevitable self-flagellation that would follow...well, nothing except another few more frites!   For those that don't quite understand the adjustable Lap Band, I will briefly explain where I am at the moment and relax my friends and family before they think the whole procedure has been a waste of time, stress and money.   The band was fitted around the top of my over-active stomach (fitted internally around my actual stomach - I am not walking around with a big elastic band around my belly). Effectively it is strangling the cavernous beast and creating a very small "virtual" pouch at the top which will act as my stomach in the future - thus allowing me to eat a small portion of food and feel marvellously replete. The effects of this are quite literally astonishing, as I found during the first three weeks after the operation.   Because the band was sewn in place around the stomach, there was ample swelling after the fitting, which means the aforementioned strangulation is amplified somewhat for a few weeks. However, as the swelling goes down - as mine seems to have done - the throttling eases off and one finds a new ability to eat again. This is where the beauty of the device kicks in. I have had a small "port" attached under my skin, just below my ribs. This is connected, by a tube, to a balloon that is patiently encasing the inner rim of the band. This allows the surgeon to inject a small amount of saline solution, through the port and tighten the anti-hunger grip, so as to achieve the desired full effect of the band. As it is best to under-fill and not over-fill due to obvious blockage reasons - it may take a few fills to get it just right. But it eventually will get to where it needs to be. Ingenious!   However, my surgeon has decided that he will delay my first adjustment for a month - he probably has some pretty mountainous golf courses to explore in the meantime.   Now, this leaves me in a precarious and worrying situation. To date I have lost 42lbs (in about 6 weeks consisting of pre-surgery fear and latterly post-op mush). With the help of the band and its swelling after surgery - I have to admit, losing this weight was pretty easy. Forgetting any emotional side-issues, the practical part of not eating the equivalent of a week's food for most people each and every day was simple. Yesterday however, I found my old friend hunger again. As the swelling settled, Beelzebub dropped in to live with me in my furniture-less bachelor-pad - and he came supplied with twenty suitcases full of Temptation. I think I am going to have to insist that he sleeps on the floor!   My band-fill date is 18th April - so I am now in the precarious position of having to diet like a normal over-hungry fat man for four weeks. Oh my God!   But - I am now prepared. Yesterday's realisation that I could eat normally, frightened the over-sized underpants off me. Living alone means that I can empty the place of anything unhealthy or unnecessary. I am not going to a restaurant for the next month - all my eating will have to be done in the confinement of my own home and I am going to stock up on carrots for my new best friend: the juicer. Who would have thought carrot juice would be so very tasty to a huge carnivore such as me?   It's quite an interesting challenge to set myself actually. I am very much looking forward to getting back the full effect of the band, but perversely I really want to see if I can continue to lose weight over the next four weeks and keep Lucifer gagged and bound.   Wish me luck!   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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bfrancis

6
 

The Law of Sod

It’s Sod’s Law that the one person that I expected to support me in this procedure has been the only one person that hasn’t. Damn that Sod and his bloody law making!   Without wanting to sound like an angry young (ahem!) man and post my second negative post, I thought I would try and do it in a defensive way rather than go in with guns a-blazing. The gloves were originally taken off as I pressed the “new post” button - but they have duly been put back on. In fact, I have retired to the changing room, away from the ring to write a considered response with the help of a bit of Rufus Wainwright serenading me and a hot cup of jasmine tea. Actually, forget that - I am going to have to snipe a bit, so decaf coffee it is.   Firstly, I won’t bother going through my reasons for undertaking this surgery. If you want those, you can easily read through the swathes of words I have on the subject.   Secondly, I will start my defence a bit absurdly. I will start with a list of mistakes that I made leading up to the surgery and a few of my most outstanding weaknesses. This way, I can be judged in full for the actions I took.   Thirdly, I intend to iterate why this blog was set up and why I continue to push people here instead of talking about it face to face.   Fourthly, I will try and defend the accusations that have flown recently and put them in their place once and for all. I won’t be going over it again - so listen carefully!   Lastly, I intend to lose some weight with dignity and pride and hopefully a bit of happiness - so if you don’t like it - back off and let me get on. Please.   So, as detailed above, I launch my defence with point 1.     Go read.
The biggest mistake I made before undertaking this step was not to make the decision with my partner. Instead I chose to research and make the decision entirely alone. I chose to not discuss my fears with anyone and let the decision be made before I told a soul. When I did tell, it was already well decided in my mind that I would do it. In hindsight, I would probably have realised that this was to be a shared experience and needed buy-in and approval from everyone affected. I do admit that the way I did it was perhaps selfish. I won’t defend it, as I believe now it should have been done another way.
 
My second mistake - but one that I am not so sure was entirely wrong, was not to inform my friends until it was all done. This was again because the procedure was so huge to me that I wanted to be in and out of it before anyone could grill me and make my life too stressful before I undertook the seemingly controversial operation. I think that they now feel slightly distant from me as I was unable to share this with them - which perhaps I should have done. My excuse for that is hopefully well understood and forgivable.
 
My weaknesses can be pretty much listed out verbatim. I am well aware of them and pretty much everyone who knows me is also very well read on the subject. Again, I won’t excuse the failings - just lay them out on the table.
I am absolutely CRAP with money. I don’t quite understand its value and I can’t hold onto it as long as I should. It has gotten me into some dire situations and I am aware that it has caused some distress to those around me. Never ever lend me money. Ever!
I am a frightful coward. Everything that has any kind of danger attached fills me with dread. I hate roller coasters, flying and high speed. I cower at spiders and tremble at heights. If you are looking for courage in a burly man - look elsewhere.
I am pretty stubborn. Once I have decided upon something - that will always be the right thing in my mind. It takes a lot of persuasion to talk me around to another point of view. Some people may well recognise this as arrogance!
I was (no more) a big drinker. I binged and usually got very “bombastic” in the process. Imposing one’s personality on friends and stranger can be quite daunting for them. Using booze as a crutch to overcome my utter shyness and inability to have a conversation with people was probably not the best therapy.
I have many other weaknesses, but are probably irrelevant for this post - so I will stop self-flagellating.
  [*]This blog was set up for two reasons. I needed an outlet where I could do a bit of cathartic self-therapy. Writing everything down in this way seems to be a brilliant tool for exploring one’s mind and really coming to terms with issues that bother you. I recommend it for anyone undertaking a journey like this that they have concerns about. Even if you don’t publish it - write it down. The honesty you can deliver to a uncaring, uninterested computer screen is immense. The second reason was to enable my friends to read my reasons behind my decsion and see more into the process. It gives them the full picture without taking up my entire life talking about it. If people want to know, they go to my blog. Also, I figured it would help people contemplating the operation in the future see the thought processes I went through stage by stage and help them to come to terms with the options available. I’m not entirely sure my readership is that enormous nor whether people actually take in what they read in between the rambling sentences. But, from the few comments I have received, it is ringing a similar chord with other people who have had the surgery. Time will tell if this helps anyone else. [*]Now, the accusations! This blog is simply self-indulgent crap.
Well, it has been an important part in my decision and coming to terms with opting for the surgery. It has also helped others close to me to fully understand what I did. Whereas with talking and conversation - they would only have had the full story. I just wouldn’t have the time to quote the articles in teh blog to all my friends. I can’t really defend the “crap” bit.
I didn’t cater for the feelings of my partner when I made the decision on my own
Yes I did. I shouldn’t have made the decision on my own, but her feelings were very much considered and put into the equation. The trouble is - I didn’t accurately predict what her feelings would actually be. Hence the discussions should have been made. Half of a defence there.
I wasted money on the operation when I could have invested in the family unit and dieted instead like most people.
Sorry - but there is no basis to that one. Firstly - here is a fact. Of all diets - only 3-5% are successful in the long term (reference Dr Jessie H. Ahroni Ph.D., A.R.N.P.). A whopping 95 to 97% of people who diet are wasting their time! I have tried dieting and my mental and physical make-up is such that I was one of the 95-97% of people who failed. I tried for 15 years. This was a last resort as you will probably know by now from my self-proclaimed cowardice. Secondly, me paying for a surgery to keep me alive for many more years than previously expected IS an investment into the family unit. Imagine my salary over, let’s say, 20 years. Lastly, the money spent on the operation is approximately how much I overspent on food and alcohol over two years. So, in conclusion - this has not only cost nothing - it has actually put money BACK IN to the family unit (remembering my fiscal weakness - you may wish to check these facts!). Along with that, it is giving me the opportunity to live a bit longer.
So, there you have it. Now I intend to get on with my new life, in a slightly different way than I had originally planned - but get on with it I shall.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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bfrancis

4
 

Deal With It

Stepping on the scales a few days ago to realise that I had cast aside the title of "morbidly obese" was almost as thrilling at when I first discovered Sicilian lemon pudding. Almost.     As I left the bathroom, adorned with my new proud banner of "obese", I was mentally working out when my next heavy-weight title adjustment to "overweight" would be. Perhaps I wasn't savouring my obese label with as much pureed relish as I should have been. What it took to lose my "morbid" moniker!   The one thing about slowly shedding a life-long disability is the dawning realisation that you may well not be fully ready to throw away the crutches and run as soon as you would like. Having hidden behind morbidly obese for so long and realising that in a few months I would be just overweight started to make me feel a little edgy. What excuses would I be able to conjure up when I didn't fancy going for a walk? What reason could I give for feeling depressed some days? What lies could I make up for the reasons I never made it as a singer? I remember being filmed for a documentary for the Discovery Health channel and giving the sob-story that my songs would never make it because no one wanted to see a man of my weight on stage. I didn't conform to the marketable beauty that all rock and pop stars must have. Soon, my only excuse will be that my music just isn't that good. It's a scary prospect that I may well have to admit that to myself one day and not blame the belly.     Such massive life adjustments, whether for the best or not, are bound to be scary. It's new territory that I am totally unused to. I can't remember ever being anything but fat and, this time next year, I will be in the nerve-wracking zone of a normal, healthy weight. I just have no idea what lies ahead because of this change. Also, moving on from a long-term relationship into a small flat on the other side of town brings an even greater anxiety of uncharted seas ahead.     In the old days (ie last month), I would take a short overview of the situation and settle down with a big fat steak - and forget it all. Bury my head in the sand of that huge unending desert that is emotional gorging. Now those wastelands are not part of my life - I have to find a new way of dealing with my upsets and fears. Maybe, just maybe, I will have to...gulp...deal with it!     All this change and personal turmoil is certainly going to be one interesting ride and I think the best and only thing to do is sit back, watch it all happen and enjoy the ride.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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1
 

Rage Against the Fat Gene

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:
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3
 

The Awakening

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
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2
 

Time for a Change

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
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8
 

My New Hobby

Whilst laying awake last night, I started to do a bit of self-analysis (keep those gutter minds out of the sewers please!) and examine my psyche a little bit. It's amazing how overworked my mind becomes when I go to bed ("hit the sack" for all you States-side peeps out there).   Amongst many other world-changing theories and famine-busting mental dissertations, I stumbled across my new hobby - which I believe will be a good enough one to serve as my emotional crutch when my "eat the food, eat the plate, eat the table" endorphin-driven support has been removed at the end of the month.   It reminded me of what I tend to do when I purchase something on the Internet that will take weeks to arrive - I go back the site where I bought it and look at the picture. A few hours later, I go to the manufacturer's site and download a brochure and read that. The next day, I go hunting for pictures of it on Google and browse those. Then I go to other sites that sell it and read more reviews...and this continues ad-infinitum until the damn thing arrives just to help me pass the shopaholic yearning. That's what keeps me excited about what-ever it is that is arriving (most lately, I'm proud to say it was an elliptical trainer - now there's a first for me!).   That is exactly what I am doing now. I am preparing for my purchase in two weeks time (Lap Banded on 27th). I am reading reviews and visiting sites like this and taking in the stories of others who have bought it. When I eventually buy it, I will know that UPS will take their time delivering...in fact, I am going to have to do an awful lot of the driving and lugging myself. It will probably take two years to get here. But I will continue to read the amazing stories and see the awe-inspiring before & after pictures that you guys post here - all just to see me through to the day when mine is finally delivered.   For me, it's going to be a relatively private affair until I can get my head around the life-changes that will no doubt occur after surgery - but people like you, who post stories along the way - before, during and after - are the people that are starting to replace my lifelong friend & enemy, food.   I raise a glass of my pre-op-diet water to the founder of this site and further raise the entire bottle to all of you who contribute.   Cheers! (originally posted in the LapBandTalk forum and at: Lap Band Blog)
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2
 

Addicted to Happy

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
bfrancis

bfrancis

1
 

Pre-assessed and Pre-approved

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
bfrancis

bfrancis

7
 

Morbid Morbidity

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
bfrancis

bfrancis

10
 

Killing with Kindness

Whilst sitting in the "green room" waiting to be called on set (actually, the name was quite apt as we were sat in a stuffy snooker room in the back of an old gentleman's club...baize green everywhere!) I had another moment of diving into people's psyche concerning us fatties (for those of a sensitive nature, scrub that and read "bariatrically challenged" or "those of a less than slender approach").   The moment that sparked my grey cells was when, as usual, I preempted the jokes and jibes that could be thrown at me - by putting myself down. I seem to recall it was some throw-away comment about squeezing in to a too-tight top which made me feel like a homosexual piglet in a boob-tube.   As I uttered the defensive barrier, a very lovely lady leaned over to me (amongst the other actors laughing) and said "you shouldn't put yourself down like that...you're not fat."   For a moment, I listened to her words and for an even briefer moment in time, I actually believed her.   I like to consider myself an intelligent man and, being one hundred and fifteen pounds over my ideal weight, I have used many mathematical formulae and a sprinkle of the laws of physics to deduce that I am indeed fat. In fact, my calculation led me to the category of "morbidly obese". As much as I hate that label, that is what I am. And I look it.   So what made that woman, who I must sat was a little chunky herself, advise me that I was not fat? Was she mad? Did she stem from a foreign country and was actually trying to say "you are not fit"? Was she being sarcastic and making fun of me?   I believe she, like countless other of my friends and family over the years, was just being kind. She saw a stigma in the reference if fat, just like most people across the world do. She, unlike some of the less than sensitive people I have met in my life, handled this with an assumed kindness. A certain flattery that was meant to pat me on the back and say "there, there, you'll be OK".   I would be an awfully cynical human being if I said that I didn't appreciate that kind of response. After all, it is well intentioned and far preferable to the kinds of insults one normally receives from the less civilized and less educated people in the world. Also, she was obviously under the impression that my put down servered no other purpose other than self-abuse. But, us overweight people know that it is far better to beat the others to the punchline than to have to sit through the humiliation when others cast their fatty remarks. But, forgetting that aspect, does it really help the situation when someone pats you on the backk and says "never mind, your not fat"?   Having grown up fat, been educated fat and gone through my adult life fat, I have heard many, many people accuse me of not being "fat" or "too fat" before. People who are close to me. People who care for me. And people who are just embarrassed about the word or concept of "fat". But, I have now come to the conclusion that they have been part of my problem.   Had everyone I had come in contact with over the years behaved like the Neanderthal beings that have caused me pain, embarrassment and tears over the past thirty six years, I believe I may have started to do something about it sooner. Had they publicly humiliated me, called me names and lessened by character because if my weight, I may well be slim, athletic and proud of myself. I may well be one of them.   With every denial of my weight issues, came a psychological acceptance. They cared for my feelings, and in doings so aided my fast ride to diabetes, circulation problems, countless other health issues and even early death. They were indeed killing with kindness.   Now I have decided to undergo the (not so controversial of late) Lap Band procedure, I write this with a certain historical perspective in my mind. From here on in, I am going to be slimmer. I am going to be more athletic. I am going to be more proud of myself. I am going to be more like them. But, I am doing it under my own volition. I have chosen my time.   Had the world been a darker place where, the people who care for me had been more cruel (my closest friends, my family, the people embarrassed of the "F" word), then I would feel unsettled. I would not be the person I am today. I would be miserable and entirely alone.   Kindness and understanding is an essential part if ensuring our loved ones mature and develop on the outside as well as the inside. I am grateful for all the blatant lies of me not being fat through my life, as I understand that they were, in the main, meant with care and love. However, I am also strangely grateful to the bastards (and I cannot stress that word enough - but more of that in a later blog) that littered my life and helped point out the fact that, even without mathematical formulae, I was obviously fat.   Originally posted at: Lap Band Blog
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