Jean McMillan

One of the things that (usually) keeps me sane in the kitchen is the Clean Up As You Go Rule. When I was single, it was easy to enforce. Then I married, and my kitchen sanity took a beating. I love to cook, and that’s been a big help at every stage of my weight loss journey. Finding WLS-friendly food at restaurants or in vending machines has rarely been an issue for me, because I’d rather cook and eat at home. Eating my way around the world during business travels was fun at the time, but the weight I gained through the years was not in the least fun. I realize not everyone shares my love of cooking (in fact, some of you hate it), so when I wrote Bandwagon Cookery, I took pains to make the book entertaining. This is an excerpt from the book. If reading it doesn’t change your thinking about cooking, I hope that at least it amuses you. KITCHEN SANITY: CLEAN UP AS YOU GO aka The Beef Broth Story One of my mom's cardinal kitchen rules was: clean up as you go. It's possible to take this to ridiculous extremes. My Aunt Jeanne (for whom I was named) was not a great cook but she was a dedicated dishwasher. If you were cooking anything in Jeanne's kitchen and let go of it for a minute (let's say you were stirring the sauce and put the spoon down while you spent 30 seconds searching for the dried basil), she would wash it. You'd reach out your hand for that spoon and it'd be gone...over to the dish drainer. And then there's my husband, Mr. P., who is (in more ways than one) cut from the same piece of cloth as Jeanne. In the small kitchen of our first home, the food prep area was to the left of the sink. We stacked anything that needed to be washed to the right side of the sink. After years of cleaning up after myself, I certainly appreciated it when Mr. P., would automatically, without being begged, coaxed, or bribed, wash anything that was sitting on the right side of the sink. But one Sunday I spent something like 49 hours (yes, I do know there are only 24 hours in one day, but it felt like 49 hours) making my own beef stock. I roasted a cow's worth of beef bones, then I boiled them in huge vats (lobster pots, actually) of water with onions, carrots, celery, and herbs. Then I drained the stock, put it back in the vats, and added crushed eggshells to help "clarify" the broth. (By now you're thinking, "You are a very sick lady, Jean", and I agree, and you haven't even heard yet all the gory details about the time I boned and stuffed a game hen into a chicken into a turkey before adding gourmet stuffing and roasting the whole thing one Thanksgiving). Then I poured the broth into large bowls and left them to cool for about 10 minutes while I washed my hands, visited the bathroom, and had a hit of wine. Refreshed, I returned to the kitchen ready to pour this fabulous stock into freezer containers and… it was gone! Mr. P. had discarded every last drop, carefully washed all the bowls, and was sitting virtuously at the kitchen table reading the Sunday newspaper. The kitchen counters were clean and tidy...and the stock and everything I'd used to make it had disappeared. "Where is the stock?" I screamed. Mr. P. looked up from the financial pages and said, "What stock?" (OK, I just added the financial pages for fun. He would only read the financial pages if there were ads in there for guns and knives - hey, not a bad idea!). "The stock I left on the counter!" "You mean that brown stuff in the bowls?" "Yes, the brown stuff in the bowls! Where is it?" "I threw it out and washed the bowls. Why?" For a moment I was speechless (hard to imagine, I know). I looked at the gleaming, empty kitchen counters and thought of all the work I had put into that stock. What was more important, a loving husband or 20 quarts of beef stock? And always having sensible priorities, I said, "What the f***ing f***?! That was the f***ing beef stock I've been working on all day, and you threw it out? Why would you do that?!" He carefully set the newspaper on the table and said (slowly, and with equal care, as any sensible man must do when dealing with a loved one's psychotic break), "It was on the right side of the sink. That's where we put everything that needs to be cleaned, right? On the right hand side of the sink?" Silence again. How could he think that those bowls brimming with fragrant, glorious, homemade beef stock were something that needed to be discarded? Was he totally witless? Or was I? Because he was right: I had put them in the Goodbye Zone. I shook my head at him ("You got me!"), wearily refilled my wine glass and retired to the living-room with two dogs who were probably thinking, "That beef stock sure would've tasted good poured over my kibble."

I love to cook, and that’s been a big help at every stage of my weight loss journey. Finding WLS-friendly food at restaurants or in vending machines has rarely been an issue for me, because I’d rather cook and eat at home. Eating my way around the world during business travels was fun at the time, but the weight I gained through the years was not in the least fun. I realize not everyone shares my love of cooking (in fact, some of you hate it), so when I wrote Bandwagon Cookery, I took pains to make the book entertaining. This is an excerpt from the book. If reading it doesn’t change your thinking about cooking, I hope that at least it amuses you. KITCHEN SANITY: CLEAN UP AS YOU GO aka The Beef Broth Story One of my mom's cardinal kitchen rules was: clean up as you go. It's possible to take this to ridiculous extremes. My Aunt Jeanne (for whom I was named) was not a great cook but she was a dedicated dishwasher. If you were cooking anything in Jeanne's kitchen and let go of it for a minute (let's say you were stirring the sauce and put the spoon down while you spent 30 seconds searching for the dried basil), she would wash it. You'd reach out your hand for that spoon and it'd be gone...over to the dish drainer. And then there's my husband, Mr. P., who is (in more ways than one) cut from the same piece of cloth as Jeanne. In the small kitchen of our first home, the food prep area was to the left of the sink. We stacked anything that needed to be washed to the right side of the sink. After years of cleaning up after myself, I certainly appreciated it when Mr. P., would automatically, without being begged, coaxed, or bribed, wash anything that was sitting on the right side of the sink. But one Sunday I spent something like 49 hours (yes, I do know there are only 24 hours in one day, but it felt like 49 hours) making my own beef stock. I roasted a cow's worth of beef bones, then I boiled them in huge vats (lobster pots, actually) of water with onions, carrots, celery, and herbs. Then I drained the stock, put it back in the vats, and added crushed eggshells to help "clarify" the broth. (By now you're thinking, "You are a very sick lady, Jean", and I agree, and you haven't even heard yet all the gory details about the time I boned and stuffed a game hen into a chicken into a turkey before adding gourmet stuffing and roasting the whole thing one Thanksgiving). Then I poured the broth into large bowls and left them to cool for about 10 minutes while I washed my hands, visited the bathroom, and had a hit of wine. Refreshed, I returned to the kitchen ready to pour this fabulous stock into freezer containers and… it was gone! Mr. P. had discarded every last drop, carefully washed all the bowls, and was sitting virtuously at the kitchen table reading the Sunday newspaper. The kitchen counters were clean and tidy...and the stock and everything I'd used to make it had disappeared. "Where is the stock?" I screamed. Mr. P. looked up from the financial pages and said, "What stock?" (OK, I just added the financial pages for fun. He would only read the financial pages if there were ads in there for guns and knives - hey, not a bad idea!). "The stock I left on the counter!" "You mean that brown stuff in the bowls?" "Yes, the brown stuff in the bowls! Where is it?" "I threw it out and washed the bowls. Why?" For a moment I was speechless (hard to imagine, I know). I looked at the gleaming, empty kitchen counters and thought of all the work I had put into that stock. What was more important, a loving husband or 20 quarts of beef stock? And always having sensible priorities, I said, "What the f***ing f***?! That was the f***ing beef stock I've been working on all day, and you threw it out? Why would you do that?!" He carefully set the newspaper on the table and said (slowly, and with equal care, as any sensible man must do when dealing with a loved one's psychotic break), "It was on the right side of the sink. That's where we put everything that needs to be cleaned, right? On the right hand side of the sink?" Silence again. How could he think that those bowls brimming with fragrant, glorious, homemade beef stock were something that needed to be discarded? Was he totally witless? Or was I? Because he was right: I had put them in the Goodbye Zone. I shook my head at him ("You got me!"), wearily refilled my wine glass and retired to the living-room with two dogs who were probably thinking, "That beef stock sure would've tasted good poured over my kibble."

Eight years ago, I weighed twice what I weigh today. Thanks to bariatric surgery, I’ve lost 116 pounds. Sometimes I look in the mirror and still see Fat Jean. And sometimes I look in the mirror and see Slim Jean, and I think “What the heck happened?” What happened is that, as an acquaintance once said, I’ve lost an entire person. And what also happened is that I’ve gained an entire person. One who likes to dress in nice clothes that show off her nice parts. One who longer wishes she were invisible, is willing to chat with complete strangers, and can drive past McDonald’s and not feel French fries pulling her into the drive-through line. And this is a person who’s willing to try new things, even as my hair grows silver and my mind and body grow slower and my energy diminishes…but so far, it hasn’t diminished to my pre-op activity level: sitting for hour after hour in a big, soft armchair with a mystery novel and 2 small dogs on her lap and a bag of potato chips within easy reach. Please God, don’t ever let me return to that! But it’s not God’s job to prevent that. It’s my job. Forever and ever, amen. Because this journey never ends. And that’s OK. Because the day I take this weight loss and my new, energized, interesting life for granted is the day my Bandwagon veers off the road and into a deep, deep ditch. I’m determined to stay on the WLS path. I marvel almost every day not just at my size 4 wardrobe but at my mostly wonderful quality of life. So please don’t be discouraged if, despite WLS, you find yourself plodding down the road hand in hand with your old food devils or trapped on a weight loss plateau. Sometimes we need to revisit old places, if only to help us remember how far we’ve come and motivate us to climb the next hill.

Kathleen, When someone says that weight loss surgery is "taking the easy way out," I have to shake my head. They have no idea what it's like to walk this path. In a sense, losing weight after WLS is indeed easier, and more successful,l for me. That's one of the reasons I had surgery in the first place! I have a morbidly obese acquaintance who tells me that although she's glad WLS has been successful for me, she could never do it, because she feels like she ought to be able to lose the weight on her own. So on top of being miserable because of all the ways obesity compromises her health and wellbeing, she's also miserable because she feels like a failure. Jean

What happened is that, as an acquaintance once said, I’ve lost an entire person. And what also happened is that I’ve gained an entire person. One who likes to dress in nice clothes that show off her nice parts. One who longer wishes she were invisible, is willing to chat with complete strangers, and can drive past McDonald’s and not feel French fries pulling her into the drive-through line. And this is a person who’s willing to try new things, even as my hair grows silver and my mind and body grow slower and my energy diminishes…but so far, it hasn’t diminished to my pre-op activity level: sitting for hour after hour in a big, soft armchair with a mystery novel and 2 small dogs on her lap and a bag of potato chips within easy reach. Please God, don’t ever let me return to that! But it’s not God’s job to prevent that. It’s my job. Forever and ever, amen. Because this journey never ends. And that’s OK. Because the day I take this weight loss and my new, energized, interesting life for granted is the day my Bandwagon veers off the road and into a deep, deep ditch. I’m determined to stay on the WLS path. I marvel almost every day not just at my size 4 wardrobe but at my mostly wonderful quality of life. So please don’t be discouraged if, despite WLS, you find yourself plodding down the road hand in hand with your old food devils or trapped on a weight loss plateau. Sometimes we need to revisit old places, if only to help us remember how far we’ve come and motivate us to climb the next hill.

When you’re rolled into the operating room for bariatric surgery, you pray that the procedure will help you overcome obesity and all the sad and difficult things about it. It’s the start of your weight loss journey, and you’re ready to leave all that behind. When you look back, the excess weight that was so very, very heavy becomes smaller and lighter. Eventually it disappears. Is that the end of your weight loss journey? No, it’s not. Or it hasn’t been for me. I'm still moving down the road of recovery. I still remember the bad stuff, the ridicule and humiliation and pain. It’s hard to dispose of because a lot of it is tied up in memories of incest, physical and verbal abuse. Some of that may have contributed to my overeating. It’s hard to put it all away in a cupboard and lock the door. For 20 years, I considered myself a victim of a dysfunctional family and of the siren call of food that helped numb the pain. Then the excess weight was gone, and it took me another three or so years to stop thinking of myself as a victim and start thinking of myself as a survivor. I was (and am) proud of myself for surviving the terrible, terrifying years of strife, weight gain, and self-pity. I was strong, not just because I’d been lifting weights at the gym but because I’d been exercising my free will. I was strong enough to make better choices in life and in eating. I was going to survive, damn it! More time passed. My weight went up and down as I dealt with physical and emotional troubles, but I was still a survivor. All the weight didn’t return to weigh me down. I became even stronger as I mastered those troubles – a stronger, more triumphant survivor. I was on top, right? Finally, I was wonderfully the victor over villains that took the form of people and problems. And more time passed. Hey, I’ve been on this journey for quite a while by now. I’m 8+ years out. I’m 8+ years older. I don’t want more change now. I hate change, don’t you? It’s scary, hard, painful and time-consuming. But I hate being obese even more than I hate change, so I persist. I’m nothing if not stubborn (and of pig-headed Scottish descent). One day I stepped on the scale and was so startled by the number that I stepped back, waited a minute, and stepped back on. The same number appeared. I had lost 120 pounds. Really, truly 120! I was almost half the weight I was before my surgery. I had gone from size 3X clothes made by Omar the Tentmaker to size XS clothing from an assortment of cute, skinny apparel brands. I could even wear some children’s size clothing and shoes. Finally, finally, I liked looking at my reflection in the mirror. I might even have become a bit vain, but I deserve that, don’t I? Don’t we all, after a lifetime of shame? Then a logical question popped into my mind: WHAT’S NEXT? It’s my million dollar question, and one day it might become yours. So, what do I do next, having survived over 50 unhappy, often miserable years of victimhood? Do I want to tread water for the rest of my time on this earth? Well, no. I’m a lousy swimmer, afraid of the water (which I’ll blame on two episodes of a family member’s attempts to drown me). I don’t after all want a long, straight road without surprises and amazing views and adorable size 6-1/2 shoes. I want my adorable feet on the ground and my head in the heavens. What do I want? I want to move from SURVIVING to THRIVING. I want to prosper and grow like an exotic, sweet-smelling hothouse flower (preferably one that never dies). I want to flourish, prosper and succeed: growing happier, healthier, and even more adorable. I will not let myself be dragged through the frailty and doom of old age. I will NOT. I will thrive. In fact, I am now thriving, even as we speak. It’s by far the sweetest reward I’ve ever had for all my hard work. I’ve earned it, and so have you. Nowadays I’m enjoying interesting new friendships, richer old friendships, various hobbies, pets, and countless activities I had even never dreamed of, never mind tried, before weight loss surgery. I actually enjoy exercise classes (as much for the social aspect as for the calorie burning), new ideas and adventures, hobbies, church, writing, laughing (I’ll give up exercise classes before I give up laughter), and of course the never-ending delight and occasional insanity of caring for two jobs, a house, nine dogs, two cats, and the 63-year-old child I call my husband. NEXT has arrived. It is here and now. I’m not a victim, I’m not just a survivor: I’m a THRIVER. Sometimes that’s quite a stretch for me, but almost always it’s interesting and challenging and even fun. What's next for you? Decades of weight maintenance and tolerance of the tiresome aspects of life? Happy medical appointments? Happy clothes shopping? Admiring glances from strangers? The spouse or partner or baby or job you’ve always wanted? I’ll tell you what’s next. Life is next. Live it as a thriver, not just a survivor. Celebrate and enjoy it. You may have to experiment, try on as many new activities as clothes, discarding some and keeping the bright, shiny gems. Those are the jewels in your crown. Wear that crown with pride. You’re a thriver, and don’t you ever forget it. Treasure your thriving, because it’s the best gift ever paid out to someone who’s worked as hard as you have. It’s so valuable that no one can name its price. It’s all yours, and don’t you ever forget it!

Eight years out, and I’m still lugging around excess baggage…. I work part time in a department store. In an effort to protect the innocent (and my job), I’ll call that store XYZ instead of its real name. In some ways, that job demands more of me than any of the high-powered, fancy-schmancy jobs I’ve had in the past 30 years. Diplomacy is a major challenge in a setting that involves helping women find clothing that both fits and flatters. You’d think that I, formerly a devotee of Lane Giant, would be expert in that area, but you’d be wrong. It’s still a learn-as-you-go process, with as many permutations as there are unique female humans on this planet. One day, I was happily straightening the XYZ lingerie department, restoring it to neatness in the way only I can (and only I care about), when an obese, middle-aged female customer stomped up to me and demanded, “Show me your fat girl bras.” Fat girl? I thought. FAT girl? Those two little words pressed my own fat girl button, and a storm cloud of unhappy memories instantly appeared in my overcrowded brain. Memories of being a fat girl, out in places where my humiliation played out on an all too public stage. Children pointing at me and giggling. Elevator occupants looking at me in dismay as I tried to squeeze myself into the crowded space. Walking sideways down the aisle of a jumbo jet airplane while my body brushed against the shoulders of other passengers. My inner fatty didn’t care that this customer was describing herself, not me, as a fat girl. She didn’t care that I used to be 100+ pounds heavier. She couldn’t seem to remember my success at losing those excess pounds. All she could focus on was the term “fat girl” and how hurtful it was, years and years past my days as a fat girl. So I’ll blame Fat Jean for what I said to that customer. I said huffily, “We don’t use the term fat girl in this store.” Her look of astonishment clued me to the fact that I might have sounded a bit condescending. Or even…very condescending. For a moment I wondered if I’d somehow gone over to the other side – to the land of skinny people who have no clue what obesity is like, and don’t even care to understand. Then I recovered enough to say, “If you tell me what size and features….” I didn’t get to finish the sentence. The customer said angrily, “You don’t have any fat girl bras, do you? I don’t know what’s happened to XYZ. I used to be able to get good bras here. Not any more. Now you’ve lost a customer.” And she stomped off towards the exit. I told myself that she had an attitude problem and I’d done my best to help her, but inside I knew that wasn’t true. Part of the reason I hadn’t helped her was that my own emotional baggage had gotten in the way, and XYZ had lost a customer because I’d let my hurt and defensive fat girl take over the conversation. I had frustrated and angered someone for whom I actually did feel compassion…someone dealing with a weight problem that probably wasn’t a whole lot different from my own. Despite my size 4 clothing, I really did understand her frustration in searching for clothing for an obese body. I wished I could run after her and say, “I wasn’t always skinny!” but that was my baggage to carry, not hers. That unhappy encounter reminded me of how far I’ve come, and how far I have to go. Even now, over seven years after reaching my goal weight, I’m carrying baggage that’s stuffed to overflowing with the lessons I still must learn in order to spend the rest of my life as a skinny person. It reminded me that losing excess weight is only part of the work now. Learning to live without it is another.

When I was maybe 6 months post-op, a WLS veteran mentioned that the mental journey takes longer than the physical one. At the time I thought, "Oh, don't tell me that! I've already had more than enough of this recovery stuff." Turns out she was right. But I have to say that it has all been so worthwhile.

"...that didn't look like couch upholstery or tablecloths" made me laugh. My mom (who also struggled with obesity) used to say her clothes were made by Omar the Tentmaker. I hope that no WLS newcomers were hurt by the "Lane Giant" reference. If a WLS outsider had said something like that, I'd have been hurt, but I'm not an outsider, and I have the emotional and surgical scars to prove it.

Cringed because I used the term "Lane Giant"? I'm sorry if that offended you. I can only speak from my personal experience. I DID feel like a giant when I was morbidly obese. I often felt like the elephant in the living room, this huge creature that everybody knew was there but no one dared mention. When I went to the mall and ducked into Lane Bryant, I felt ashamed. Perhaps poking fun at Lane Bryant is one way that Fat Jean tries to balance out that old humiliation.

I work part time in a department store. In an effort to protect the innocent (and my job), I’ll call that store XYZ instead of its real name. In some ways, that job demands more of me than any of the high-powered, fancy-schmancy jobs I’ve had in the past 30 years. Diplomacy is a major challenge in a setting that involves helping women find clothing that both fits and flatters. You’d think that I, formerly a devotee of Lane Giant, would be expert in that area, but you’d be wrong. It’s still a learn-as-you-go process, with as many permutations as there are unique female humans on this planet. One day, I was happily straightening the XYZ lingerie department, restoring it to neatness in the way only I can (and only I care about), when an obese, middle-aged female customer stomped up to me and demanded, “Show me your fat girl bras.” Fat girl? I thought. FAT girl? Those two little words pressed my own fat girl button, and a storm cloud of unhappy memories instantly appeared in my overcrowded brain. Memories of being a fat girl, out in places where my humiliation played out on an all too public stage. Children pointing at me and giggling. Elevator occupants looking at me in dismay as I tried to squeeze myself into the crowded space. Walking sideways down the aisle of a jumbo jet airplane while my body brushed against the shoulders of other passengers. My inner fatty didn’t care that this customer was describing herself, not me, as a fat girl. She didn’t care that I used to be 100+ pounds heavier. She couldn’t seem to remember my success at losing those excess pounds. All she could focus on was the term “fat girl” and how hurtful it was, years and years past my days as a fat girl. So I’ll blame Fat Jean for what I said to that customer. I said huffily, “We don’t use the term fat girl in this store.” Her look of astonishment clued me to the fact that I might have sounded a bit condescending. Or even…very condescending. For a moment I wondered if I’d somehow gone over to the other side – to the land of skinny people who have no clue what obesity is like, and don’t even care to understand. Then I recovered enough to say, “If you tell me what size and features….” I didn’t get to finish the sentence. The customer said angrily, “You don’t have any fat girl bras, do you? I don’t know what’s happened to XYZ. I used to be able to get good bras here. Not any more. Now you’ve lost a customer.” And she stomped off towards the exit. I told myself that she had an attitude problem and I’d done my best to help her, but inside I knew that wasn’t true. Part of the reason I hadn’t helped her was that my own emotional baggage had gotten in the way, and XYZ had lost a customer because I’d let my hurt and defensive fat girl take over the conversation. I had frustrated and angered someone for whom I actually did feel compassion…someone dealing with a weight problem that probably wasn’t a whole lot different from my own. Despite my size 4 clothing, I really did understand her frustration in searching for clothing for an obese body. I wished I could run after her and say, “I wasn’t always skinny!” but that was my baggage to carry, not hers. That unhappy encounter reminded me of how far I’ve come, and how far I have to go. Even now, over seven years after reaching my goal weight, I’m carrying baggage that’s stuffed to overflowing with the lessons I still must learn in order to spend the rest of my life as a skinny person. It reminded me that losing excess weight is only part of the work now. Learning to live without it is another.

When things go wrong (especially medical things), the bad stuff can take over everything else. After all, having weight loss surgery isn’t something you do every day, so you have virtually no experience dealing with its challenges. You’re in a strange new world. How can you find your way across a post-op territory filled with medical landmines? I know this is easier said than done, but try not to panic over bumps in the road. What looks or feels catastrophic today is probably not as bad as it seems. That’s what my mom used to say when I was growing up and despondent about something (which was often, especially during adolescence). I was strangely comforted by her words because I knew (and she frequently reminded me) that Mom had seen some pretty bad stuff in her life. It's easy to "awfulize" things when you have a pain, symptom or experience you didn't expect and can't explain. You're sure that's something's wrong. You haven't lost weight in three days, or you found hair clogging your shower drain, or you puked up your dinner. Don't let fear cloud your thinking. You will wear yourself to a frazzle if every event becomes a crisis. This applies to many aspects of your life. It's extremely difficult to make a good decision when you're in a panic. Your vomiting might be related to WLS, but it could also be the result of a garden-variety intestinal bug. Your teenaged daughter's failure to return your phone call could be because she was in a terrible car accident, or it could be because her cell-phone battery died. So ask yourself: Is this an emergency? Is it life-threatening, disabling, or just inconvenient? What will happen if I don't do something about it right now? Can I deal with this myself, or do I need help? What kind of help (medical, emotional, spiritual, financial)? Who can help me (my surgeon, therapist, best friend, minister)? Be careful how you choose your helper(s). I know you love your sister, who might tell you that everyone in her family has been sick with a bug since you saw them (and their germs) on Sunday, but she probably can’t accurately tell you whether your symptoms are related to your WLS. Is whatever you fear might be wrong really, truly the very worst thing you could hear? I’ve survived some scary and disappointing stuff during my WLS journey. I’ll probably never forget hearing my surgeon say, “Jean, your band has to go,” and “Jean, I removed your band but I wasn’t able to do your sleeve revision today because of a stricture in your esophagus.” I’ve also gotten bad news about friends who are fellow WLS patients. I mean really, really bad news, when death was reaching out its evil hands to take my friend away forever. In my own life, nothing can top losing a parent. “Jean, your mother died today,” is (so far) the worst bad news I’ve ever heard. A cancer diagnosis, the death of my husband, or the loss of my home to a tornado (entirely possible where I live) would also be mighty devastating. But if I dwelled on those possibilities, I’d spend the rest of my life in anxious misery, and I’m pretty sure that’s not what God has in mind for me. I'm not saying that your struggles aren't important. They are. But it will be easier for you to handle them if you do it with a clear mind and a calm heart. So take a deep breath. And when in doubt, call your surgeon.

I know this is easier said than done, but try not to panic over bumps in the road. What looks or feels catastrophic today is probably not as bad as it seems. That’s what my mom used to say when I was growing up and despondent about something (which was often, especially during adolescence). I was strangely comforted by her words because I knew (and she frequently reminded me) that Mom had seen some pretty bad stuff in her life. It's easy to "awfulize" things when you have a pain, symptom or experience you didn't expect and can't explain. You're sure that's something's wrong. You haven't lost weight in three days, or you found hair clogging your shower drain, or you puked up your dinner. Don't let fear cloud your thinking. You will wear yourself to a frazzle if every event becomes a crisis. This applies to many aspects of your life. It's extremely difficult to make a good decision when you're in a panic. Your vomiting might be related to WLS, but it could also be the result of a garden-variety intestinal bug. Your teenaged daughter's failure to return your phone call could be because she was in a terrible car accident, or it could be because her cell-phone battery died. So ask yourself: Is this an emergency? Is it life-threatening, disabling, or just inconvenient? What will happen if I don't do something about it right now? Can I deal with this myself, or do I need help? What kind of help (medical, emotional, spiritual, financial)? Who can help me (my surgeon, therapist, best friend, minister)? Be careful how you choose your helper(s). I know you love your sister, who might tell you that everyone in her family has been sick with a bug since you saw them (and their germs) on Sunday, but she probably can’t accurately tell you whether your symptoms are related to your WLS. Is whatever you fear might be wrong really, truly the very worst thing you could hear? I’ve survived some scary and disappointing stuff during my WLS journey. I’ll probably never forget hearing my surgeon say, “Jean, your band has to go,” and “Jean, I removed your band but I wasn’t able to do your sleeve revision today because of a stricture in your esophagus.” I’ve also gotten bad news about friends who are fellow WLS patients. I mean really, really bad news, when death was reaching out its evil hands to take my friend away forever. In my own life, nothing can top losing a parent. “Jean, your mother died today,” is (so far) the worst bad news I’ve ever heard. A cancer diagnosis, the death of my husband, or the loss of my home to a tornado (entirely possible where I live) would also be mighty devastating. But if I dwelled on those possibilities, I’d spend the rest of my life in anxious misery, and I’m pretty sure that’s not what God has in mind for me. I'm not saying that your struggles aren't important. They are. But it will be easier for you to handle them if you do it with a clear mind and a calm heart. So take a deep breath. And when in doubt, call your surgeon.

The road to weight loss can be a slippery one. We’re on this journey, with bariatric surgery packed in our bags, because so many times before we lost our way and found ourselves back at the beginning, maybe with an extra 10 or 100 pounds inour bags. So how can we drive on these icy roads and arrive at our destinations safe and sound and thin? Brrrrr. It’s winter, and a bad one in some parts of the country. I’m somewhat safe because much of the time, I can work from home, but that can be risky business too. Just think about it: my office door is only six feet away from my typically over-stocked middle-class American kitchen. There’s no caramel gelato in the freezer, no cookies in the cupboard, but despite that, my brain keeps wandering back to the kitchen, over and over again. No doubt about it, winter driving is tricky business for WLS patients, indoors and out. This doesn’t mean that your most precious vehicle (your body) is destined to slide off the road despite the nifty tool of bariatric surgery. These are just some musings from a formerly fat girl with a lot of miles on her. I’ve writtena lot on that subject – a lot? Heck, I wrote a whole book about it, but I’ll start by introducing myself. Here goes: Hi, I'm Jean, and I'm a control freak. I have a really hard time trusting thatfate, or God, or anybody else, is in control of my life, my weight, my health,big things, small details, anything. The story I’m about to tell you is absolutely true. Years ago I was a passenger in a car driven by my boyfriend. I was in the passenger’s seat; his 9-year-old daughter and her dog were in the back seat. It was a very cold, dark, snowy night on a curving mountain road in New England (not much different than conditions up there was I write this). Suddenly the road before us was a sheet of ice and in panic, I said, "Slow down, Jack, that's glare ice ahead." He didn't slow down, didn't even respond, soI cried, "Jack! Are you nuts? We’ve got Kristin and Taffy in the car!" He said, "If I brake now, we'll spin out. We're just going to roll over it." So we rolled right over the ice, and we all survived. The car was silent for amoment or two, and then we heard Kristin behind us, saying, “Can we stop at Friendly’s for ice cream?” What does this story have to do with bariatric surgery? Sooner or later on your weight loss surgery journey, you will hit a stretch of bad road. It will be dark out, and you’ve never driven this road before, and it’s raining cookies or sleeting potato chips and the visibility is terrible. You'll be lost, without street signs or landmarks or a map to guide you, facing unexpected events or conditions. You'll hit a weight loss plateau or experience a weird symptom or your beloved surgeon will leave his/her practice and move to Tibet to study Buddhism. If you're like me, a person who always has to be solving a problem, you'll ask yourself, "What am I doing wrong? What can I do to fix this? What should I do now? Right now." The answer to those questions may very well be, "Nothing." Sometimes the best course of action is no action. Sometimes you just have to stay the course. So the next time you face a rough spot in your journey, try not to panic. Don't hit the brakes, or speed up, or turn suddenly. Just roll over it. You’re notin charge of the world and someone in heaven’s got your back. The ice and snowwill melt, you’ll be able to read your map again, and you’ll crawl out of thatditch you’d slid into. You’ll firmly tell Kristin that no, we’re not stopping for ice cream, and you’ll hit the WLS road again, one foot at a time, over andover, while your destination grows ever nearer.

Brrrrr. It’s winter, and a bad one in some parts of the country. I’m somewhat safe because much of the time, I can work from home, but that can be risky business too. Just think about it: my office door is only six feet away from my typically over-stocked middle-class American kitchen. There’s no caramel gelato in the freezer, no cookies in the cupboard, but despite that, my brain keeps wandering back to the kitchen, over and over again. No doubt about it, winter driving is tricky business for WLS patients, indoors and out. This doesn’t mean that your most precious vehicle (your body) is destined to slide off the road despite the nifty tool of bariatric surgery. These are just some musings from a formerly fat girl with a lot of miles on her. I’ve writtena lot on that subject – a lot? Heck, I wrote a whole book about it, but I’ll start by introducing myself. Here goes: Hi, I'm Jean, and I'm a control freak. I have a really hard time trusting thatfate, or God, or anybody else, is in control of my life, my weight, my health,big things, small details, anything. The story I’m about to tell you is absolutely true. Years ago I was a passenger in a car driven by my boyfriend. I was in the passenger’s seat; his 9-year-old daughter and her dog were in the back seat. It was a very cold, dark, snowy night on a curving mountain road in New England (not much different than conditions up there was I write this). Suddenly the road before us was a sheet of ice and in panic, I said, "Slow down, Jack, that's glare ice ahead." He didn't slow down, didn't even respond, soI cried, "Jack! Are you nuts? We’ve got Kristin and Taffy in the car!" He said, "If I brake now, we'll spin out. We're just going to roll over it." So we rolled right over the ice, and we all survived. The car was silent for amoment or two, and then we heard Kristin behind us, saying, “Can we stop at Friendly’s for ice cream?” What does this story have to do with bariatric surgery? Sooner or later on your weight loss surgery journey, you will hit a stretch of bad road. It will be dark out, and you’ve never driven this road before, and it’s raining cookies or sleeting potato chips and the visibility is terrible. You'll be lost, without street signs or landmarks or a map to guide you, facing unexpected events or conditions. You'll hit a weight loss plateau or experience a weird symptom or your beloved surgeon will leave his/her practice and move to Tibet to study Buddhism. If you're like me, a person who always has to be solving a problem, you'll ask yourself, "What am I doing wrong? What can I do to fix this? What should I do now? Right now." The answer to those questions may very well be, "Nothing." Sometimes the best course of action is no action. Sometimes you just have to stay the course. So the next time you face a rough spot in your journey, try not to panic. Don't hit the brakes, or speed up, or turn suddenly. Just roll over it. You’re notin charge of the world and someone in heaven’s got your back. The ice and snowwill melt, you’ll be able to read your map again, and you’ll crawl out of thatditch you’d slid into. You’ll firmly tell Kristin that no, we’re not stopping for ice cream, and you’ll hit the WLS road again, one foot at a time, over andover, while your destination grows ever nearer.

Guess what? You just got a new job! Isn’t that exciting? Except…it’s a tough job: you will now be the CEO of Lifetime Weight Management. But don’t worry. You can do it, and the pay is fabulous. We’ll get to the job news, but first I’m going to tell you a job story of my own. I’m a writer and story-teller: that’s my job. Often my stories are fiction, but every word in this story is true. Many years ago, I attended a business luncheon with a coworker who was naturally slim. The food was delicious: a huge, flaky croissant filled with chicken and grape salad, a mountain of potato chips (I adore potato chips), and strawberry shortcake for dessert. About one-third of the way through her meal, my coworker stopped eating and pushed her plate away. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t you like the food?” “Oh, it’s fine,” she said. “I just can’t eat any more.” She must have seen the baffled look on my face, because she added an explanation. “I eat a certain amount, and then I reach a point where I just can’t eat another bite, so I stop eating. I’ve always been this way.” I wanted to offer to finish her lunch for her, but was too ashamed of my own greed to suggest it, and I was busy digesting what she had just said. I couldn’t remember ever in my life reaching the point where I couldn’t eat another bite of food. And although I had tried more diets and slimming plans than I could name, it had never occurred to me that I might become slim simply by stopping eating when I became full. My coworker was effortlessly slim and I was effortlessly obese. I subsided into silent envy over her natural advantage. I spent the next 20 years suffering from morbid obesity and developing numerous health problems as a result of it. Finally, after much research and thought, I decided that weight loss surgery was my best option. On September 19, 2007, I had adjustable gastric band surgery. Ever since then I have been learning how to eat, and live, like a slim person. During that time, I’ve accumulated a lot of information, and have cultivated a lot of opinions that may not agree with yours, but of everything I’ve learned during my weight loss journey, there’s one truth you need to heed. Like it or not, no bariatric surgery of any description is magic. The WLS patients I know have all worked hard for their success. Adjustable gastric band. Roux-en-Y. Vertical sleeve gastrectomy. Sleeve plication. Duodenal switch. The surgical procedure happens only once (good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise), but one thing, common to us all, happens every day for the rest of our lives. Weight loss and weight loss maintenance require attention, commitment and action every day for the rest of our lives. It’s a job – a career – we must do or die. A smart, mature, diligent acquaintance who did her research before she took the weight loss surgery plunge said to me once, “I had no idea how much work this was going to be.” The work is not just in the weight loss but in lifestyle changes. The work doesn’t end once you reach your goal weight, but believe me: it is so very, very worth it. I love this new job of mine. I love the improved health and high energy and increased self-esteem and size 4 clothing, and I hope I never grow tired of it or take it all for granted. A lifetime of work ahead of you can seem overwhelming. Think of it as a lifetime of learning. Learning is a good thing. If you stop learning, you stop growing. And if you stop growing, you die. My mother, who struggled with obesity most of her life, used to say that there was a tall, thin brunette inside her just waiting to get out. I will always have a short, fat blonde girl inside me just waiting to get out. But having weight loss surgery has given me some wonderful tools for lifetime weight management, and I hope that proves to be the same for you.

Oh, dear, I've worked at dozens of behaviors and still do and probably always do. As time goes on, the focus of my work changes. I'm changing, my world is changing, and just when I think I've got it all figured out, I go around a corner only to find an old ghost waiting for me. I had to work very, very hard at mindful eating in my first few years post-op. No more shoveling in the food so fast I hardly tasted it. Nowadays I'm working more on believing I'm thin. When I look in the mirror, one day I see Fat Jean, and the next day I see a skinny girl and think, "Who i s that girl? She looks familiar?"

We’ll get to the job news, but first I’m going to tell you a job story of my own. I’m a writer and story-teller: that’s my job. Often my stories are fiction, but every word in this story is true. Many years ago, I attended a business luncheon with a coworker who was naturally slim. The food was delicious: a huge, flaky croissant filled with chicken and grape salad, a mountain of potato chips (I adore potato chips), and strawberry shortcake for dessert. About one-third of the way through her meal, my coworker stopped eating and pushed her plate away. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t you like the food?” “Oh, it’s fine,” she said. “I just can’t eat any more.” She must have seen the baffled look on my face, because she added an explanation. “I eat a certain amount, and then I reach a point where I just can’t eat another bite, so I stop eating. I’ve always been this way.” I wanted to offer to finish her lunch for her, but was too ashamed of my own greed to suggest it, and I was busy digesting what she had just said. I couldn’t remember ever in my life reaching the point where I couldn’t eat another bite of food. And although I had tried more diets and slimming plans than I could name, it had never occurred to me that I might become slim simply by stopping eating when I became full. My coworker was effortlessly slim and I was effortlessly obese. I subsided into silent envy over her natural advantage. I spent the next 20 years suffering from morbid obesity and developing numerous health problems as a result of it. Finally, after much research and thought, I decided that weight loss surgery was my best option. On September 19, 2007, I had adjustable gastric band surgery. Ever since then I have been learning how to eat, and live, like a slim person. During that time, I’ve accumulated a lot of information, and have cultivated a lot of opinions that may not agree with yours, but of everything I’ve learned during my weight loss journey, there’s one truth you need to heed. Like it or not, no bariatric surgery of any description is magic. The WLS patients I know have all worked hard for their success. Adjustable gastric band. Roux-en-Y. Vertical sleeve gastrectomy. Sleeve plication. Duodenal switch. The surgical procedure happens only once (good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise), but one thing, common to us all, happens every day for the rest of our lives. Weight loss and weight loss maintenance require attention, commitment and action every day for the rest of our lives. It’s a job – a career – we must do or die. A smart, mature, diligent acquaintance who did her research before she took the weight loss surgery plunge said to me once, “I had no idea how much work this was going to be.” The work is not just in the weight loss but in lifestyle changes. The work doesn’t end once you reach your goal weight, but believe me: it is so very, very worth it. I love this new job of mine. I love the improved health and high energy and increased self-esteem and size 4 clothing, and I hope I never grow tired of it or take it all for granted. A lifetime of work ahead of you can seem overwhelming. Think of it as a lifetime of learning. Learning is a good thing. If you stop learning, you stop growing. And if you stop growing, you die. My mother, who struggled with obesity most of her life, used to say that there was a tall, thin brunette inside her just waiting to get out. I will always have a short, fat blonde girl inside me just waiting to get out. But having weight loss surgery has given me some wonderful tools for lifetime weight management, and I hope that proves to be the same for you.

Recently I bought some jeggings in size XS. At first I was OK with the way they fit, but after wearing them for a few hours, I found myself constantly hiking them up from my hips to my waist. Then I spent hours of negative thinking about how annoying it was to buying those jeggings but not be able to keep them on my body before I suddenly thought, "Jean! These are SIZE EXTRA SMALL! It's annoying that they don't fit well, but it's fabulous that extra small is too big on you! EXTRA SMALL, Jean Do you not get it?" Over and over I'm reminded that the mental/emotional weight loss journey takes a lot longer than the physical one. I'm annoyed that XS jeggings fit too loosely, then I'm grateful that I can wear XS jeggings thanks to WLS. One day I look at myself in the mirror and all I can see is the pudge in my midsection. The next day I try on XS jeggings and think,"Hey, girl! You're looking so fine!" It makes my formerly-blonde (now silver) head spin at times. It can be very disconcerting, but man, oh man is it worth all that work!

Self-pity is a popular commodity in the WLS community. I often say things like, “You want my pity? Sorry, you can’t have it. I’m saving all of mine for a truly deserving person – like me.” Let’s see how Jema and her dog deal with self-pity in today’s Jema & Alice cartoon, Come to My Pity Party! * * * Admit it. You know what self-pity is, at least well enough to know it at a glance as you trudge on and on towards your weight goal. So take a look at this cartoon and see if you recognize anything about it. In today’s episode of the WLS adventures of Jema and her faithful dog, dark clouds hang over their heads and rain a deluge of self-pity onto Jema’s life. What climate condition started that rain? The cause is an emotional meteorological phenomenon commonly known as envy. Jema has been comparing her WLS journey to everyone else’s and comes out crying because they’re all so successful that she’s a failure in comparison. Or so she believes…. I understand how Jema feels because if I let them, envy and self-pity walk hand in hand through my life. They trample right over the good stuff and cultivate the bad stuff. The kind of stuff that gets me nowhere near my goals. Jema’s problem today is that she attended a support group meeting and left it thinking evil thoughts about another bandster who’d reported a 50-pound weight loss already. Jema had "only" lost 35 pounds. What was wrong with her? Why was Debbie Doolittle but not Jema blessed with superior band success? Jema’s been a good girl too, in fact, a very hard-working and deserving girl. As our heroine wails in today’s cartoon, “It just isn't fair!” So she throws herself a pity party while Alice plays the violin. And then? And then, she dries her eyes and moves on. She decides to use her rival’s weight loss success as inspiration instead of punishment, Debbie Doolittle might even have some tips to share at the next support group meeting. Somehow, some way, Jema’s going to find the silver lining in her dark cloud. OK, party’s over. Back to work! Click here to see today's cartoon: https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1554342973151004146#editor/target=post;postID=8785291681792807452

At one of the pre-op nutrition classes I attended, the dietitian gave us a longlist of foods to avoid - stuff like fried chicken - and I overheard another patient groan and say, "That all seems like a lot to give up." I think focusing on loss - as in loss of favorite foods - is only human, but not helpful for long-term weight loss success. Unless you have particular medical conditions that prohibit the intake of certain foods, you'll be able to eat a wide variety of good food. It's not the spaghetti that's a problem. The real problem is eating too much of it. Getting to a point where you can enjoy a few bites and then put the fork down is just part of the WLS journey.

A weight loss plateau or stall is a temporary cessation of weight loss that can happen at any point in your weight loss surgery journey and can last days, weeks, or months. Plateaus happen to almost everybody sooner or later (no matter what means they're using to lose weight), no matter how hard they work at weight loss. Why do plateaus happen even when we’re doing all the right things? The human body wants to preserve itself. It fights weight loss by adapting the metabolism to accommodate decreased calorie intake and/or increased calorie output. The body's new plan of attack is multi-pronged: increase calorie intake by making you hungrier (so you eat more), use less energy to accomplish physical activity (so you burn fewer calories) and hold on to stored fat (so it can use it for energy). I think plateaus often happen because we're in a rut. So even if you believe you're doing all the right things in terms of diet, exercise, and mental or emotional effort - try changing them. If nothing else, it will prevent boredom and help you feel that you're taking positive action instead of being a victim of fate. Here are some things you can try to shake up your routine. Change the intensity, duration, frequency and type of exercise you're doing, so your body doesn't become too efficient at burning calories when you work out. Don't neglect strength training - muscle burns far more calories than fat does. Don't over-train - take one day off exercise a week. Plan all your meals (the "how much" as well as the "what"). Weigh and measure your food before you put it on your plate. Log your food intake - you might be surprised to see what and how much you're really eating. Try calorie shifting: vary your calories - eat 1200 one day, 900 the next, and so on, to keep your body guessing. Eat 3 small meals and 3 healthy snacks a day instead of 3 meals a day. Increase your water intake. Decrease your sodium intake. Don't weigh yourself every day - switch to once a week. Don't skip breakfast. By the way, if you weigh yourself every day and think that no weight loss for three days running is a plateau, you're going to have a long journey ahead of you. Get off that scale, now! I have one more suggestion that you probably won't want to hear: CULTIVATE PATIENCE. No, it's not one of my virtues, either. Give it a try anyway.

You are one smart cookie!

Well, consider the source...small mind, big mouth... from someone who may be misinformed. None of us are immune to big mouth syndrome. I'm glad to be an American who's (mostly) free to express my opinion in public on any subject - health included.. I'm happy with the weight loss my sleeve has made possible, but I still fiercely miss my band. Rosie's WLS opinions sound important because she's a celebrity, but being a celebrity doesn't automatically gift you with wisdom. In the end, Rosie is still a human being who will have to account for her life and choices when she meets her Maker. And any celebrity talking about any WLS procedure probably does us a favor by shining a light on the topic of morbid obesity and its treatment (surgical or otherwise) even if their commentary is negative.