The Rest of Eric's Life!
Hello Folks!
My name is Eric, and I am here to tell a story, one day at a time.
The story starts out with me as I am right now, 43 years old, weighing in at 450+ pounds, taking two types of blood-pressure medicine and three different diuretics and contemplating not just where I'm headed versus where I want to go, but also what I am willing to do to get there. Stick around and see where the story leads you. I can't promise you that it will have a happy ending, but I will, with every ounce of my being, try to make it so. With that said, the story begins with a posting I made on an e-mail list made up of some of my closest friends . . .
****
I know many of my friends have voiced concerns to Cheri about my weight. I appreciate their concern greatly, but even more do I appreciate that they did not voice their concerns to me. I have, for years, known that the weight I carried was unhealthy. Unfortunately, for those in my condition, knowing it and doing something about it are two separate things and being 'reminded' by my friends only leads to resentment and anger. Resentment against my friends for presuming to think I don't already know, and anger towards myself for being weak willed and unable to do anything about it. I mean, all it takes to lose weight is to exercise and watch what you eat, right?
I had a friend at work tell me that one-day. She said all I needed was to walk for forty-five minutes a day and that would solve my weight problem. Believe me, if it was that easy I'd be as thin as a rail. What it does take is for me to DECIDE that BY GOD, I'm going to LOSE that weight! I did that five years ago when I joined Weight-Watchers and started an exercise program at the gym. I had run off to the Pennsic War in Newcastle, PA, and had to deal with the ‘hill’. In fact, because it was a 'working' visit to the war, I had to 'do the hill' four or five times a day. I thought I was going to die. After that experience, I resolved myself to lose weight, even if it killed me! After getting home from the war, I joined Weight-Watchers, started working out at the gym, and just watched the weight fall off!. At my peak, I was working out at the gym eight times a week, including five days a week on the treadmill for at least 30 minutes and three days of weight training. To complement this, following weight-watchers guidelines for portion control and nutrition, I had established an eating pattern that had little variety but great control. In six months I dropped eighty-three pounds! That’s eighty-three boxes of butter from the grocery store for those who can't grasp the significance!. I was a bachelor in complete control of my life and my focus was on, and more importantly, it was working . . .
Then I got distracted.
I was 38 and had recently broken off a long-distance relationship when the most wonderful woman in the world hit me in the head with a jackhammer. OK, maybe it wasn't a jackhammer, but she did catch my attention. Unfortunately, my focus broke down as I struggled to find time to fit her into my already busy life. My focus broke, but not all at once. It started out with dropping a gym visit every now and then so that we could go to dinner, or see a movie. As our relationship grew, more and more time was taken from the gym so that we could spend more time together. But it wasn't just in the gym that my focus suffered. When it was just me doing dinner, it was easy to control when and where I ate, but with the two of us, I had to consider her wishes and desires. Nearly a year after we started dating, Cheri and I got married and I lost all semblance of focus.
Now understand that none of this was Cheri's fault. It was my decision to drop a day at the gym here or there. It was my choice to stop going to the weight-watcher meetings. It was my decision to order the Burrito Platter or the 16 ounce steak with a loaded potato. It was my focus to keep, not hers. I lost it. It is and always will be my fault.
Over the next several years not only did I put the eighty-three pounds back on, I added an additional fifty+ to that. I say fifty+ because I pegged my scale. I knew I needed to lose weight, but my focus, my motivation, had fled. Now Weight-Watchers didn't work. Adkins didn't work. South Beach didn't work. Was I surprised? No diet I have ever been on has ever worked, and I have done them all. After all, I’ve been dieting now for nearly 38 years, or at least as long as I can remember I’ve been big and was constantly told I had to lose weight.
Here’s an important note when it comes to me and understanding where I’m coming from when it comes to weight loss: I have been FAT all my life! Or at least since I was about five when I surpassed my older brother in size. I don’t like the word ‘fat’. I also don’t like the word ‘obese’. The first saw a bit of over-use while I was growing up. You know the old rhyme . . . ‘Fatty fatty two-by-four . . .’. Why don’t you sing it along with me and we can all pretend to be kids again. The second just sounds disgusting. Now, ‘Over-weight’ has the ring of truth, but it has a touch of negative judgment implied, whereas the word ‘Heavy’ sounds good and has no sense of judgment. ‘Big-boned’ just sounds like an excuse. The fact is though, that I am ‘FAT’, I’m not only ‘OBESE’ but I’m ‘MORBIDLY-OBESE’, a word combination that should make me crawl under the nearest stone and wait for my own miserable, inevitable death so that the beautiful people of the world don’t have to look at me. It’s a good thing I am better adjusted that that.
So here I am, forty-three years old, weighing in at a whopping four hundred thirty pounds, down from a scale tipping 450+ pounds, taking several types of blood pressure medicine and lots of diuretics, and I bet your wondering what this is all about. Well, I’ll get to that in a moment. First, I have to add one final piece of scenery to the stage.
Last year, my sweetheart bought two of the most gorgeous horses I had ever seen. And in order for us to keep these horses, we had to move to a larger plot of land. We looked and found the perfect place, a cracker style house with 1550 square feet under ‘air’ on a five-acre lot. Before putting a bid down on the place I had to figure out how I was going to manage the purchase. It turned out that the only way we could pull it off was if we sold our existing house first. In the end, we managed to put a substantial amount down on the new property, but we were still looking at a significant six-figure mortgage.
Now, let me pry apart the events of that last paragraph and insert a very important meeting. In the three weeks after our offer on the farm was accepted, and two weeks after we had accepted an offer on our old house, my doctor told me that, though he wasn’t sure, he believed that I was in the beginning stages of Congestive Heart Failure.
Even just writing those words out on this page I find myself shaking. I have to sit back and regain control of my hands, regain control of my emotions; shove that cold-hard fist-of-a-stomach back down into the abdomen where it belongs. And I thought the hill at Pennsic was scary.
The Cardiologist couldn’t confirm the diagnosis, but that was only because all of the equipment he needed to use for such a diagnosis do not work with morbidly obese people. There goes that word again. 'Morbidly Obese', I find it easier to think about that stone right about now, but there’s only one problem with that utge. Besides the fact that I am not a quitter, I have several good reasons to stick around, the greatest reason of which is my wife, Cheri.
It took me way too many years to find her. I’ll be damned if I’m gong to let my time with her be cut short! I plan on spending many years arguing, or maybe I should say negotiating, over which improvements to our house has priority, or even what form those improvements will take! I plan on spending many years making her teach me how to ride Blanche and Stella! It may even take years for her to teach me how to use the Ford Tractor we bought with the house. And the last thing I want to do to her is leave her a six- figure mortgage to deal with . . .
So what does all this mean, you might ask? What am I leading up to?
I find myself sitting here at my computer on the evening of April 5th needing to reach out to my friends . . . no, my family . . . the family that I have chosen, for that is what you are, to let you know that on April 11th, at 7:00 am, I will be going into surgery at the James E Holmes Regional Medical Center to have a lap band placed around the upper part of my stomach. Though I am nervous about the procedure, and for the changes that it means I will be making in my life from here on out, I am confident that this is the right thing to do and that I will succeed in what could be my final opportunity to stave off the alternative. I know you will keep me in your thoughts and know you that I have the strength and the will to get through this one, I’m stubborn that way. Keep Cheri in your hearts and lend her your strength. I know she has it in her to make it through this as well, but she was raised in an environment filled with much more love and support than I was, and I just can’t stand the thought of her going through this alone.
Yours With Love
Eric Smith
P.S. Please forgive the ramble that is most of this post. It would seem that I have a lot of issues with being ‘fat’. Really, I am very happy with who I am. I just wish I wasn't so much of who I am.
My name is Eric, and I am here to tell a story, one day at a time.
The story starts out with me as I am right now, 43 years old, weighing in at 450+ pounds, taking two types of blood-pressure medicine and three different diuretics and contemplating not just where I'm headed versus where I want to go, but also what I am willing to do to get there. Stick around and see where the story leads you. I can't promise you that it will have a happy ending, but I will, with every ounce of my being, try to make it so. With that said, the story begins with a posting I made on an e-mail list made up of some of my closest friends . . .
****
I know many of my friends have voiced concerns to Cheri about my weight. I appreciate their concern greatly, but even more do I appreciate that they did not voice their concerns to me. I have, for years, known that the weight I carried was unhealthy. Unfortunately, for those in my condition, knowing it and doing something about it are two separate things and being 'reminded' by my friends only leads to resentment and anger. Resentment against my friends for presuming to think I don't already know, and anger towards myself for being weak willed and unable to do anything about it. I mean, all it takes to lose weight is to exercise and watch what you eat, right?
I had a friend at work tell me that one-day. She said all I needed was to walk for forty-five minutes a day and that would solve my weight problem. Believe me, if it was that easy I'd be as thin as a rail. What it does take is for me to DECIDE that BY GOD, I'm going to LOSE that weight! I did that five years ago when I joined Weight-Watchers and started an exercise program at the gym. I had run off to the Pennsic War in Newcastle, PA, and had to deal with the ‘hill’. In fact, because it was a 'working' visit to the war, I had to 'do the hill' four or five times a day. I thought I was going to die. After that experience, I resolved myself to lose weight, even if it killed me! After getting home from the war, I joined Weight-Watchers, started working out at the gym, and just watched the weight fall off!. At my peak, I was working out at the gym eight times a week, including five days a week on the treadmill for at least 30 minutes and three days of weight training. To complement this, following weight-watchers guidelines for portion control and nutrition, I had established an eating pattern that had little variety but great control. In six months I dropped eighty-three pounds! That’s eighty-three boxes of butter from the grocery store for those who can't grasp the significance!. I was a bachelor in complete control of my life and my focus was on, and more importantly, it was working . . .
Then I got distracted.
I was 38 and had recently broken off a long-distance relationship when the most wonderful woman in the world hit me in the head with a jackhammer. OK, maybe it wasn't a jackhammer, but she did catch my attention. Unfortunately, my focus broke down as I struggled to find time to fit her into my already busy life. My focus broke, but not all at once. It started out with dropping a gym visit every now and then so that we could go to dinner, or see a movie. As our relationship grew, more and more time was taken from the gym so that we could spend more time together. But it wasn't just in the gym that my focus suffered. When it was just me doing dinner, it was easy to control when and where I ate, but with the two of us, I had to consider her wishes and desires. Nearly a year after we started dating, Cheri and I got married and I lost all semblance of focus.
Now understand that none of this was Cheri's fault. It was my decision to drop a day at the gym here or there. It was my choice to stop going to the weight-watcher meetings. It was my decision to order the Burrito Platter or the 16 ounce steak with a loaded potato. It was my focus to keep, not hers. I lost it. It is and always will be my fault.
Over the next several years not only did I put the eighty-three pounds back on, I added an additional fifty+ to that. I say fifty+ because I pegged my scale. I knew I needed to lose weight, but my focus, my motivation, had fled. Now Weight-Watchers didn't work. Adkins didn't work. South Beach didn't work. Was I surprised? No diet I have ever been on has ever worked, and I have done them all. After all, I’ve been dieting now for nearly 38 years, or at least as long as I can remember I’ve been big and was constantly told I had to lose weight.
Here’s an important note when it comes to me and understanding where I’m coming from when it comes to weight loss: I have been FAT all my life! Or at least since I was about five when I surpassed my older brother in size. I don’t like the word ‘fat’. I also don’t like the word ‘obese’. The first saw a bit of over-use while I was growing up. You know the old rhyme . . . ‘Fatty fatty two-by-four . . .’. Why don’t you sing it along with me and we can all pretend to be kids again. The second just sounds disgusting. Now, ‘Over-weight’ has the ring of truth, but it has a touch of negative judgment implied, whereas the word ‘Heavy’ sounds good and has no sense of judgment. ‘Big-boned’ just sounds like an excuse. The fact is though, that I am ‘FAT’, I’m not only ‘OBESE’ but I’m ‘MORBIDLY-OBESE’, a word combination that should make me crawl under the nearest stone and wait for my own miserable, inevitable death so that the beautiful people of the world don’t have to look at me. It’s a good thing I am better adjusted that that.
So here I am, forty-three years old, weighing in at a whopping four hundred thirty pounds, down from a scale tipping 450+ pounds, taking several types of blood pressure medicine and lots of diuretics, and I bet your wondering what this is all about. Well, I’ll get to that in a moment. First, I have to add one final piece of scenery to the stage.
Last year, my sweetheart bought two of the most gorgeous horses I had ever seen. And in order for us to keep these horses, we had to move to a larger plot of land. We looked and found the perfect place, a cracker style house with 1550 square feet under ‘air’ on a five-acre lot. Before putting a bid down on the place I had to figure out how I was going to manage the purchase. It turned out that the only way we could pull it off was if we sold our existing house first. In the end, we managed to put a substantial amount down on the new property, but we were still looking at a significant six-figure mortgage.
Now, let me pry apart the events of that last paragraph and insert a very important meeting. In the three weeks after our offer on the farm was accepted, and two weeks after we had accepted an offer on our old house, my doctor told me that, though he wasn’t sure, he believed that I was in the beginning stages of Congestive Heart Failure.
Even just writing those words out on this page I find myself shaking. I have to sit back and regain control of my hands, regain control of my emotions; shove that cold-hard fist-of-a-stomach back down into the abdomen where it belongs. And I thought the hill at Pennsic was scary.
The Cardiologist couldn’t confirm the diagnosis, but that was only because all of the equipment he needed to use for such a diagnosis do not work with morbidly obese people. There goes that word again. 'Morbidly Obese', I find it easier to think about that stone right about now, but there’s only one problem with that utge. Besides the fact that I am not a quitter, I have several good reasons to stick around, the greatest reason of which is my wife, Cheri.
It took me way too many years to find her. I’ll be damned if I’m gong to let my time with her be cut short! I plan on spending many years arguing, or maybe I should say negotiating, over which improvements to our house has priority, or even what form those improvements will take! I plan on spending many years making her teach me how to ride Blanche and Stella! It may even take years for her to teach me how to use the Ford Tractor we bought with the house. And the last thing I want to do to her is leave her a six- figure mortgage to deal with . . .
So what does all this mean, you might ask? What am I leading up to?
I find myself sitting here at my computer on the evening of April 5th needing to reach out to my friends . . . no, my family . . . the family that I have chosen, for that is what you are, to let you know that on April 11th, at 7:00 am, I will be going into surgery at the James E Holmes Regional Medical Center to have a lap band placed around the upper part of my stomach. Though I am nervous about the procedure, and for the changes that it means I will be making in my life from here on out, I am confident that this is the right thing to do and that I will succeed in what could be my final opportunity to stave off the alternative. I know you will keep me in your thoughts and know you that I have the strength and the will to get through this one, I’m stubborn that way. Keep Cheri in your hearts and lend her your strength. I know she has it in her to make it through this as well, but she was raised in an environment filled with much more love and support than I was, and I just can’t stand the thought of her going through this alone.
Yours With Love
Eric Smith
P.S. Please forgive the ramble that is most of this post. It would seem that I have a lot of issues with being ‘fat’. Really, I am very happy with who I am. I just wish I wasn't so much of who I am.
posted by Eric at 10:08 PM
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