Designated Fat Girl

by Jennifer Joyner

  My wounds from the gastric bypass had long healed, and my recovery from the complications should have been concluded. But my reliance on prescription pain medicine was as heightened as ever. I took those pills around the clock. If I missed a dose, I became antsy until I got my medication. I began to rely upon, and actually look forward to, the familiar haze that descended on me once the pills kicked in. My failures weren’t quite so clear. My doubts weren’t quite so real. I could deal with taking care of the kids and doing my job and going about all the mundane tasks we all have to each day, even when our very world is coming apart at the seams. The medication got me through each day … and I knew it was wrong. I knew there was no physical reason to continue taking painkillers; my body no longer ached. I was also constantly reminded about the toll the medication was taking on my body; the pills made me terribly nauseous, and the Zofran my doctor had prescribed no longer helped. I felt sick most of the time, but I didn’t want to stop taking the Percocet. I told my doctor about the nausea and just let him assume it was left over from my surgery. He prescribed a nausea patch, and it worked wonders. I could now take the pain medicine and not feel so sick. I also knew, deep down, this was not a good thing, but I didn’t want to stop. At that point it was the only thing that made me feel any better, the only way I felt anything even close to joy.

  I had been warned about the potential pitfalls of post–gastric bypass surgery. Most of the time people overeat for a reason, and once they are physically unable to do so, they often find other forms of destructive behavior. Some become alcoholics, some develop gambling problems, others abuse drugs or cheat on their spouses. I knew that I was trying to find something to fill the void that food used to fill for me, but this was new territory. I had always thought of my overeating as a way to self-destruct. It never occurred to me that I also used food to cope, to bring about relief or happiness, even if it was just for the short term. Once bingeing wasn’t an option for me, it became very clear that food had also served as a coping mechanism, and I was desperate to find something to take its place. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, as much as it made me feel like the biggest cliché in the world, I started to realize that I was using prescription pain medicine to make me feel better.

  Because I work in the news industry, I know the desperate lengths people will go to in order to get their hands on drugs. Stealing prescription pads, calling in phony orders to pharmacies, rummaging through the medicine cabinets of sick relatives—I knew several different (illegal) ways in which I could get more pills. It also occurred to me that I could probably get them by simply asking my doctor; hadn’t I been through a lot? Would it be a big stretch to go to my surgeon and tell him I was still feeling pain and needed more medicine? I probably would have been able to pull it off, but I started to feel guilty about what I was doing. Taking the medicine and being in a constant fog was one thing; lying or at least stretching the truth to get more pills would mean I really had a problem. I was already trying to get rid of one heck of an addiction—did I really need another? No, I decided that if I went to extraordinary methods to get more pills, it would only mean that I was becoming reliant on the medicine, and I didn’t need one more problem to get over. I still had plenty on my plate.

  Of course this brave decision was easily made knowing what was waiting for me in my medicine cabinet. Having had two C-sections, I had a stash of painkillers left over from those surgeries. It’s funny—I hadn’t wanted to take those painkillers after giving birth because I thought they were bad news, and I didn’t want to become dependent on them. I suppose that’s an easy goal to carry out when you have a pretty newborn to take care of. Now it was just me, and I was miserable. I knew I didn’t have to ask my doctor for more medicine because I already had some. Of course, I had a plan: I figured that as soon as those pills ran out, I would have to find my way around without them. Problem solved!

  Some things never change.

  I did stop taking the pills around the clock, just not completely; I knew that I could never get back to any sort of regular routine if I was doped up all the time. Slowly a skeleton of a life started to emerge. I got up in the morning and did my radio newscasts. I dressed the kids and took them to preschool. I worked during the day and did the bare minimum required to keep the house running. I picked up the kids from school, gave them a snack, and put them down for their naps. Then I took two pills and spent the rest of the afternoon zonked, sitting in my old chair with my table for my fan and my meds—unattached to my world and not feeling much of anything. It was nice; it felt good. And I justified it by telling myself I only did it once a day, that I was slowly getting better. I didn’t return phone calls from friends. I avoided talking much to family members, other than the perfunctory “I’m fine” answers to their inquiries. I barely paid attention to my children. I just got through each day with the bare minimum. It was all I was capable of doing.

  This went on for several weeks, and then Michael let me know he was sick of it. He knew I was taking Percocet and told me outright I should stop. I agreed, but then I ignored his pleas. I needed something to make me feel good, to make it seem as though everything was going to be okay. I still couldn’t eat, and I was scared to try. I felt so abnormal and just … sick. The pills were the only thing that made it better.

  I knew the medication was not a long-term solution, and I did want to find a way to get back to normal. I knew in my heart that not eating was no way to live; somehow I would have to find a way to find foods that I liked and could hold down. Before then I was too sick and too tired to take on what seemed like a monumental task; now I knew that the only way to recovery was to start nourishing my body.

  And so it was almost two-and-a-half months after my surgery that I set about trying to eat. It was ridiculous that it took me that long, I know, but when I was feeling generous, I told myself that I’d been through a hard time and it was understandable. When I was beating myself up, I thought of how I could never do anything the “normal” way; there always had to be a glitch, some sort of obstacle to overcome. Still, I was finally determined to find a way to eat and feel better.

  At first I decided it was best to buy what had been my favorite foods and just eat smaller portions. I went to my old favorite barbecue place and got a plate of vinegar-based barbecue, french fries, and hush puppies. I thought the barbecue would provide good protein, and I could just eat a couple of fries, just to satisfy my taste buds. After all, if I had a dollar for every french fry I’d eaten in my lifetime, I was sure I could find my place on the Forbes moneymakers list. I actually thought this fried-filled meal was a good first attempt.

  Seeing all that food laid out on my plate made me want to hurl into oblivion. I tried the pork, ate two bites, and pushed away the plate. I thought maybe I could eat it later, but it was waiting for Michael when he came home, otherwise untouched. Back in my prime bingeing days, such a meal would have been merely a snack—an appetizer to a day’s worth of gorging. Now I couldn’t even stomach the idea of eating a third of the plate.

  There were many other such attempts. I bought some spaghetti and meatballs from my favorite Italian place. I knew carbs were a big no-no for gastric bypass patients, but I figured I would eat mostly meat and some pasta. I couldn’t even eat one whole meatball—more food left untouched. I went to a fast-food place and bought one single hamburger, thinking I could ditch the bun and just eat the patty. I barely ate half. And french fries? Ugh … they were so greasy and unappealing, I couldn’t even bother. What a weird, new experience.

  I slowly found things I could keep down. Mashed potatoes. Eggs. Cheese. I craved all kinds of high-carb foods, and I would go out and buy them, only to leave them virtually untouched. I guess it’s true: The body does crave what it doesn’t get, even if it can’t tolerate it.

  I learned this lesson with Doritos. I like the chips just as much as the next person, but I was never a huge fan before I had the surgery—I never went out of my way to eat them. But a few months after
the gastric bypass, I found myself craving those nacho-flavored triangles. Again, I knew they were too high in carbs and too spicy for me, but I decided I had to have them anyway. I bought an individual bag and took them home. Michael was in the den with the kids, and I went into our bedroom with the Doritos and locked the door, as if I were doing something bad, or at least, something I knew I shouldn’t be doing. I ate one chip. It tasted heavenly. I ate another, and another, and another. The flavors were so good, my taste buds were rejoicing. I guess all the dull foods I’d eaten for so long were getting kind of tiresome; I wanted flavor! I kept eating and eating, and soon I’d finished the entire bag. As I crunched on the last chip, a feeling of foreboding washed over me. What had I done? Was I crazy? I couldn’t eat a whole bag of chips, even a small bag! What was going to happen to me? As I wiped my mouth, I waited.

  I became so, so sick. Not the throwing up kind of sick; actually, that would have provided some sort of relief, I think. No, my belly just ached, and it was quite clear my body could not tolerate so many carbs, no matter how good they tasted. I disgustedly threw the bag in the trash and vowed never to eat them again.

  Until the next day. Yes, the very next day. I remembered how flavorful the chips were and longed for that taste again. I bought another bag, promising myself this time I would not eat the whole thing. And I didn’t; instead I ate only three-fourths of the bag. And once again I was so very sick, and just disgusted with myself. What had I expected? Was I a complete moron?

  This happened several more times, with several different types of high-carb foods, before my mind finally got the message that my body was so desperately trying to convey: I can’t eat a lot of carbs! They make me sick! As this realization finally sunk in, I couldn’t help but shake my head at how long it took for me to learn the lesson, and then I had an epiphany: That’s what it means to be a food addict. You know you are hurting yourself. You know what you are doing is not good. And you do it anyway. Over and over again. Because I had the gastric bypass surgery, I was finally physically unable to carry out my food addiction tendencies. But that didn’t mean I didn’t still want to, that I wouldn’t try to. The instincts were still there, the drive to self-destruct was very much alive. And now that I was learning that I couldn’t do it with food, I was looking for other ways to self-sabotage.

  This realization helped me stop taking the Percocet. Well, to be honest, I ran out of the bottle left over from my second C-section, and I couldn’t find the bottle from my first. I wasn’t quite desperate enough to try lying to my doctor or breaking the law in order to keep the pill habit going, thank God. I did, however, turn the house upside down, looking for that other bottle of pills. I am so grateful that I never found them; another bottle’s worth and I may have had another addiction on my hands. I realize that it could have happened, just like that.

  I slowly started to put my life back together. I gave up sleeping in the recliner, and I put the Lego table that had become my portable medicine cabinet back in Eli’s room. I finally returned phone calls and started catching up with all the friends who had been so worried about me. Of course they all understood that I had been through a lot, and they didn’t hold any grudges; all they cared about was that I was okay. And I was starting to actually feel okay with going out in public. For the many weeks after the surgery and subsequent hospital stays, I avoided public situations as much as possible. I took the kids to preschool as early as I could, and I picked them up early in order to avoid the other moms. I stopped going to church. I even withdrew Emma from her ballet class. Every time I had to go out, I felt all eyes were on me, and I knew that most of the curiosity was truly out of concern. Everyone had heard what a hard time I was having, and they wanted to know if I was okay. But I felt so self-conscious, like such a freak, that I wanted to avoid public scrutiny as much as possible. I turned down playdate invitations, and I feigned excuses to miss birthday parties. My kids and I were holed up in my house, with me unable to deal with any kind of social pressure.

  I knew that in order to return to any semblance of normalcy, I would have to slowly reintegrate myself into the mommy world. And it started at the end of May, when Emma’s preschool class hosted a Muffins for Mom event. The kids were working so hard to put on this party for the class moms, I knew I had to go, even if I didn’t feel quite up to seeing everyone. Figuring out what to wear, it occurred to me that this was the first time since the surgery I had really contemplated my appearance. I had been so caught up with being sick, and trying to figure out what to eat, I hadn’t stopped to consider my weight. I was even still wearing my presurgery clothes; the baggy shirts and stretch pants fit perfectly with my mood. Of course I knew I’d lost weight; you can’t go for two months without eating without losing some pounds. But I had no idea how much I’d lost, or how my body was adjusting.

  I stepped on the scale, naked—278 pounds. In almost two and a half months, I’d lost close to sixty pounds. The very thought took my breath away. I remembered all the times I had struggled to lose even five pounds, all the effort it took to get through even one day without giving in to the urge to binge eat. It had been weeks and weeks since I felt the need to destroy myself with food, since I had stuffed myself so much that I thought I would vomit. When I stopped to consider that, I felt incredible relief. Yes, the past two months had been really, really hard—much more than I’d ever bargained for. But I was finally starting to see a bit of the sun, and knowing that the storm cloud of food addiction wasn’t hanging over my head made me feel as though I could do anything. I felt free.

  I went to the Muffins for Mom event in a black sweater that I hadn’t worn in two years. Yes, I was still wearing black, and yes, I was still closer to three hundred pounds than I liked to be, but for the first time in a very, very long time, I felt I was moving in the right direction. The other moms greeted me warmly, all concerned about how I was doing and all commenting on how good I looked. More than one person said I was starting to get my color back. I knew what they were talking about. I was starting, ever so slowly, to feel like myself again. Not the bloated, out-of-control eating self. And not the sickly, pill-reliant woman I had threatened to become. I was finally starting to feel like just Jennifer. And that was finally starting to feel like it was enough.

  13

  Finally, the Dawn

  OCTOBER 2008

  I’m at the Pumpkin Patch with my four-year-old daughter’s preschool class. Even though we are surrounded by bales of hay, barrels of red apples, and stacks and stacks of bright orange pumpkins, the air is warm on my cheeks and all I can think about is spring. Several months before, after my gastric bypass surgery, I missed the birth of spring; because of the complications, I hardly noticed the pink blooming azaleas or the grass turning from brown straw into a rich field of green. But now, in this moment of my life, it feels like springtime. Hope renewed. A rebirthing, if you will.

  Emma has a classmate named Will-Parks, a cute little blond boy she’s known since they were babies. I tell her all the time that Will-Parks’s daddy is a hero—he’s a soldier stationed at Fort Bragg, and we’ve watched him deploy overseas several times over the years. I’ve always admired the way his mother cares for her children while her husband is away, seemingly with such ease. I can’t imagine having that kind of strength. I’ve also enjoyed watching Will-Parks’s dad over the years when he is home, because he is such a loving, doting father. All the kids in Emma’s preschool class love him.

  On this day, Will-Parks’s dad approaches me as we wait for the slideshow to begin in the farmhouse. The kids are happily munching on homemade ice cream, and he leans over to get my attention. I smile warmly at him; it has been a while since we’ve seen each other. He’s tentative, which is kind of unusual for him. Finally, he says, “I … I hope it’s okay. Can I say … can I tell you … how great you look?”

  If my smile were any bigger, my face would be permanently disfigured.

  He’s instantly relieved that I’m not embarrassed or offended, an
d this makes me admire him even more. It’s scary for a man to say anything even remotely related to weight to a woman; I’ve definitely learned that over the years. He got past that because he thought it was important that I hear what he had to say, and I am so grateful that he did. Women do need to hear compliments, especially from dashing, good-looking soldiers. I needed to hear a wonderfully warm compliment, unsolicited.

  Take that, sun god Scott.

  I lost one hundred pounds in six months. Just writing that statement is mind-blowing; living it has been an unbelievable whirlwind. I can’t tell you how much I dreamed over the years of losing one hundred pounds, how many different plans and schemes I hatched trying to reach that goal, only to fail time and again. To finally have it happen, to finally be out of the morbidly obese category is something I find difficult to describe. Joy. Relief. Freedom. Those are the words that come to mind.

  Anyone who thinks having gastric bypass surgery is taking the easy way out really needs to come and live my life, from the beginning, on March 18, when I was rolled out of the OR in such pain and it took months to recover. I did finally get over the physical pain, and I am making strides in the psychological arena as well. But make no mistake: No part of this has been easy—not even close.

  I sometimes wonder if I will ever eat “normally” again. And I guess I should figure out how I define normal; certainly how I ate before the surgery wouldn’t qualify. I guess my question is … will I ever blend in? Will people ever stop taking account of what I’m eating or asking me about what foods I should avoid? Will I ever be able to take a trip again without some elaborate plan to have foods that I can tolerate? Really, I’m dying to know how this will all play out.