Birthday Musings

 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 45^th 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 79^th 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.