bfrancis

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

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

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

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" endorphine-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 eliptical 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 visitng 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!

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

Ha ha! Nice one band_groupie!

Women fought long and hard for equal rights. I think us men should therefore have woman's extra years spread equally among us...just as as a gesture of Eve's goodwill!

Yes, perhaps I do waffle on a bit! Nevernind, it's better than eating away the time! Congrats on the weightloss.

Hey Rhori - you are in the same boat as us all. I think everyone who writes and reads the posts feels or felt the same to a varying degree. I was really scared to start with, but I have come to terms with the risks and am now excited (banded in one week). I won't post my blog here, but take a look at my latest entry http://www.lapbandtalk.com/blogs/57499/blog8619.html to see how I got around my concerns. It may well give you another way to look at it! All the best Ben

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

Alas, it was merely pre-approved for surgery not insurance. I still have to sell my kids to get this done - so you may like me again! P.S. Good to know that if it was an insurance job I would have a deathwish!

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 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

Hello Just a quickie to announce and advertise my new blog. I received some pretty uplifting comments on one of my first posts, which engaged me into examining the whole blog phenomenon and, as a result, have launched Banded Ben It will be more of an essay repository rather than quick thoughts or questions - on weight related issues, my analysis of me and weight psychology, the surgery and experience of the Lap Band after D-Day on 27th Feb. You may well find my writings to be as overweight and padded as me - in which case please do turn off, but I have enjoyed writing my first posts and would like you to just take a peek as I am not yet advertising the fact of this to most of my friends and family yet...you are my only Lap Band Buddies...sniff, sniff & sob... I hope you can take a quick look. Banded Ben Many thanks Ben

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

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

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)

Following this post and the lovely comments I received from you guys, I have decided to set up a blog to see if I am a one hit wonder! I'm not entirely sure about this blogging thing - so bear with me while I find my feet - and find the best place to put things - blogs, forums etc. So - for my latest installment from my over-analysing mind, please visit my new blog at Banded Ben I hope you enjoy!

How very kind of you all! Thank you. That puts a little pressure on me for my next rambling! Thanks again.

I am scheduled for 27th too...thirteen days and counting!

I'm booked in for 27th Feb. Very excited and even more nervous - started training and the pre op diet a week early because of excitement. Planning my epitaph because of the nerves! Perhaps I should occupy my mind with other things...tum de dum....

Just a quick note from the UK - a 6'3'', 315 pounder awaiting a date for surgery. I have to say - it feels a bit weird at my height and weight feeling so terrified about what lies ahead - but like a lot of you here, I'm doing this for my kids...so brave face Ben...brave face! Do I tell people? No it's embarrassing! I'm admitting failure! No I'm not, I'm accepting help on teh way to a healthier me. I'm being reborn! Will I wake up from the operation? Oh no - what's this about mortality rates?! All the things that I imagine everyone went through or is going through. Soooo many emotions to be had in such a short time! Nice to see so many inspirational stories happening on this site - and wonderful before and after successes and picture. I stand amazed that I have managed to avoid the camera for most of my adult life due to the shame I have in my body and all I could find are my acting headshots (which were reluctantly allowed - the painful shame of a shy actor!). I'll be sure to dig out less flattering ones when I can. So - hello to everyone and watch this space... Ben

Oh my. The date has come through - 27th Feb. Now it's a little bit real! I wonder if the surgeon will cut out this damn plague of over excitable, rather large butterlies that have just hatched in my stomach...?

Thanks RestlessMonkey!