As
I sit and write this, there’s a stink bug residing in my bathroom light
fixture. It’s belly-side up, legs flailing about, trying desperately to move,
to flip itself over and save itself from near certain death. It seems to know
it’s in a hopeless situation, lying still for a few minutes and then with a
sudden burst of energy, making exasperated attempts to escape the slippery,
unforgiving surface of the glass dome. The heat of the light must be unbearably
hot and uncomfortable. I imagine, if that stink bug had the brain capacity to reflect
on a human level, it would be probably be thinking, “How the fuck did I get
here?”
Today
is my 45th birthday. Instead of the expected celebratory mood, I’m
feeling more like that unfortunate stink bug in the bathroom light, wanting
desperately to change my current situation and wondering just how the fuck I
got to where I am. Where I “am” is the highest weight I’ve ever been, and aside
from being abundantly blessed with a beautiful home, a good job, a happy marriage
and wonderful husband, the most miserable I’ve ever been too. It doesn’t take a
rocket scientist to figure out the two are directly related.
This
birthday mirrors so many that have come before it. By now, I’m used to cycling
through of the familiar range of emotions that have haunted me year after year.
Denial that I’m getting older. Fear that I’m not living my life to it’s fullest
potential. Anger that I’ve let myself get to this weight. Worry that I will
never get my eating under control and shed myself of this 247 pound monkey I’ve
been hauling on my back for what seems like an eternity. Throughout my 20’s, 30’s and now halfway
through my 40’s, I’ve been in various stages of that “stink bug dilemma” – belly-up,
trying to flip myself over and escape the deep unhealthy hole I somehow allowed
myself to fall into. I’ve pleaded to God, the Universe, and Weight Watchers to help
me make the necessary changes that would lead me to a better life. I’ve known
for a long time that if I did nothing to correct my relationships with food and
exercise, I’d be sorry. Well, mission accomplished. I’m sorry, very sorry
indeed.
On
birthdays gone by, I’ve made countless half-hearted resolutions to get my shit
together. I’d vehemently vow (in my head or on a private blog space) that I’d
not spend another birthday in these same tight, uncomfortable shoes. I’d swear
to all that is holy that THIS was going to be the year of change. Sure, I’d
said it a million times before, but THIS TIME, I really, truly, sincerely mean
it. It helps that my birthday falls so close to New Year’s – a time where
resolutions hold great expectations, and new beginnings actually seem
attainable. I never felt ridiculous making those claims for better health and
happiness. I never stopped believing I could achieve my goal, despite years of
utter failure.
Then
my dad died this past May, six days after his 79th birthday. It
still knocks the wind out of my sails to even speak the words. I don’t think
there’s anything in life that prepares you for losing a parent. The pain and
sadness caused by my dad’s death was nothing I’d ever experienced before. I’m
still deeply grieving nearly 7 months later. However, somehow, through the
sadness and depressing darkness there has come some light, bringing me clarity
and direction in other aspects of my life. This has been both unexpected and
enlightening.
Food
and drink held a prominent place in my dad’s life, as it has in mine. I like to
think that my jovial nature and love of a good time are some of my best inherited
qualities from my dad. Eating and
drinking need always be center stage to any good time, according to Bauder Law.
I don’t know that any of us ever believed that which we loved so much would
betray us so terribly.
I
was at my dad’s hospital bedside when he was delivered the news that he had
stomach and liver cancer. I watched his face turn to stone as the doctor
matter-of-factly presented the worst news he, and the rest of my family has
ever received. His diagnosis and subsequent death less than 3 weeks later made our
heads spin and our hearts shatter. When the smoke started to clear a bit, I
began to think about how fleeting life can be and the choices we make affect
us, whether we choose to acknowledge them or not. It’s my belief that my dad
felt sick long before he acknowledged he was having problems and was given his
diagnosis. I’m not sure how far in advance, but I believe that it was maybe
long enough so that perhaps something could have been done. My dad wasn’t one
for doctors, and went to see them obligatorily, but not necessarily because he
wasn’t feeling good. I’ve been the same way for much of my adult life. I’ll
ignore a problem hoping it will go away, knowing damn well it won’t. Denial -
it ain’t just a river in Egypt, as they say.
This
year I could deny no more. My health has been on a steady decline and no amount
of denial and wishing it away can change the fact that certain parts of me are
not functioning they way they should. At 44, I’ve had doctors tell me I have
spine deterioration, and I’m looking at full knee replacement (to which I
responded with an emphatic, “No thanks.”). The truth is, I do have a choice. I
can keep on with what I’m doing and maybe end up like my dad, or I can finally
put and end to what’s been bringing me down and make the next 45 years, God
willing, count. I choose the latter.
For
the first time in a long time, I’m looking forward to the new year. Instead of
making empty resolutions, I am finally on a path to success that I KNOW I can
achieve. May 2017 is going to be a huge mixed bag of emotions for me. On one
hand, it will mark the one year anniversary of my dad’s death which will be
terrible and painful; but it will also mark an important event for me. I’ve
decided I need more help than I ever have to rid myself of the weight I’ve
carried for too many years. It’s taking its toll and I’m ready to admit just
how scared I am. It’s taken me a long time to reach this conclusion but I’ve
chosen to do what I feel I need to in order to live the life I feel I deserve
to live. In May I’ll be undergoing a gastric sleeve operation. It’s the
scariest decision I’ve ever made. But for my health’s sake, here’s hoping it’s
the best one.
