* * *
My husband is a freak, but a sweet one. Ever since my doctor’s appointment last week where she told me I had hepatitis, he’s been worrying about me.
I mean, he’s been joking too, because that’s the way we are.
“Do you think you’re on the verge of death because (insert ridiculous reason here – ie, “because you eat too many vegetables”, “because you lost so much weight so fast”, “because we have so many cats”, etc etc).”
“I’m not on the verge of death.”
“Yes you are. You’re going to die and in a few years I’m going to be the creepy guy in the bar looking for another wife so I don’t have to be alone,” he says.
“Awww, baby, I’m sure you can sucker some poor unsuspecting woman into your web of lies and convince her to move 1500 miles to be with you. You did it once!”
“This is true.”
He’s been worrying about me so much, it’s become annoying. Every visit to the bathroom, every shade of yellow I do or don’t turn, every patch of dry skin, every time I fall asleep in front of the TV. It’s ’cause I’m dying.
(We actually discussed what he should do with my ashes. He rejected the notion that he should mix them with a can of paint and paint the bedroom with them. CLEARLY HE DOES NOT LOVE ME. I decided that he should toss a handful of ashes at sea in Maine, then spend the next year going on interesting hikes and scattering a handful on top of each mountain he hikes. Maybe bury a handful of ashes in the family plot my parents purchased awhile ago.)
I should take a moment here to reassure you all – especially the spud – that I AM NOT ON THE VERGE OF DEATH. I’m going to outlive you all (except the spud). I have no plans to go anywhere, thank you.
The other morning I was in a deep, deep sleep when I felt someone shaking me. I thought it was Sugarbutt doing that annoying thing cats do, where they stretch out alongside you, then begin vigorously grooming themselves, thus shaking you, the bed, and every other cat in the vicinity.
I opened my eyes to see what the hell he was doing, and jumped when I saw Fred standing over me.
“What the hell?” I said.
“Jesus CHRIST you scared the SHIT out of me!” he said, reeling around and clutching at his chest.
I reflected for a moment that I wasn’t hovering over him in the dead of night, so I didn’t know how I could have possibly scared him.
“I came in, and I couldn’t hear you breathing,” he went on to explain. “So I leaned over and listened and didn’t hear you breathing still. I turned on the bathroom light and looked, and it didn’t look like you were breathing, so I put my hand in front of your mouth, and I didn’t feel any breath on my hand. Which is when I shook you. DON’T DO THAT TO ME!”
“You should’ve just shook me in the first place,” I said. “I would have turned over, and you would’ve known I was alive.”
“Yeah, well, I’d APPRECIATE IT if you could manage to make some noise when you breathe in the future!”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised.
He’s also worried that I’m still losing weight too fast and that I’ll fade away to nothing.
“You better not up and die on me,” he always says threateningly.
And I promise not to.
* * *
So my appointment yesterday ended up not so much being with the nutritionist as the woman who manages the bariatric coordination center. It was just kind of a touch-base appointment where she could weigh me, ask how I was feeling, and hand me a sheet of paper talking about foods with high and low glycemic index numbers, along with lists of high, medium, and low GI foods.
(I typed it in
here.)
Anyway, of course the first they do is weigh you, and when they come out to get you, they’ve checked your file and written down on a piece of paper how much you weighed at your preop appointment. When I stepped on the scale, I swear the manager came thisclose to swooning. She made me step off the scale and back on to make sure I wasn’t somehow levitating above the scale, I guess, and I got the same number the second time.
“That’s AMAZING!” she said, a huge grin on her face. “That’s the best weight loss I’ve ever seen from a woman!” She went on to point out that of course people who started with a BMI of 70 had lost more than that in six months, but that my level of weight loss, with my BMI and how much I had to lose, was on par with most of the men they have in the office. She was thrilled, and told me she couldn’t wait to tell the nutritionist.
Of course, after a while I wanted to say “Yeah, yeah, I’ve lost a lot of weight. LET’S MOVE ON.” I didn’t actually say it, but we did eventually move on to other topics. She had weight loss surgery five years ago and just a few months ago had the loose skin from her upper arms removed. She had a pretty good experience, though she got a couple of infected stitches and had to pack them, which wasn’t much fun. She showed me the scar on one arm, and it didn’t look bad at all.
She asked how quickly I’m losing, then told me that it tends to slow down after the 6-month point (which I knew), but that if in a month I’m still losing fast, to call and talk to the nutritionist. I told her that Fred’s afraid I’m going to fade away to nothing, and she said that’s a fear a lot of people can have, but it’s rarely a problem.
I’d hate to be the exception on that; I think the skeletal look wouldn’t work well on me.
I stopped on the way out to buy some more multi-vitamins and calcium, and was on my way. I stopped at the mall on the way home to check out Lane Bryant’s bras, which was a pointless exercise, and then I looked at their jeans, which was even more pointless, because I don’t need no damn $70 jeans. I wandered through the mall a little more, dodged the people giving out samples of food in the food court (!), and headed for home.
Later today I have my ultrasound appointment for my liver, and then next Tuesday I have an appointment to have the skin tag removed from the back of my neck, and then HOPEFULLY I’ll be done with the medical shit for the time being.
A girl can dream, anyway.
* * *
Fred sent me
this link a few days ago, and it makes me sad, sad, sad. Especially this quote:
“A breast is a breast — it’s a sexual thing. He didn’t need to see that.”
What an idiot you are, Gayle Ash of Belton, Texas. There is NOTHING sexual about that image, and I would guess that it’s a product of your sad, stupid little mind that sees it as such. For the love of god – you see skin and a baby. The only reason you know it’s a breast is because the cover talks about nursing.
For the record, your 13 year-old son? Ten bucks says he’s already beat off to the underwear section of the JC Penney catalogue and most likely his reaction to a picture of a baby nursing would be “Ewww”, since you’re
so intent on teaching him that breasts are sexual and have no function in the world except to turn on the 13 year-old sons of an idiot such as yourself.
Breasts don’t, in fact, exist to titillate (HEE!). They exist to nourish babies. Get a fucking clue, Gayle Ash of Belton, Texas, Dumbass Extraordinaire.
* * *
From my comments:
Very respectable pulse rate and blood pressure. Is that from all the walking or are you always in that range?
I think it must be from the walking and the weight loss. Before I had surgery, my blood pressure was high. In fact, my doctor told me that if I wasn’t pursuing weight loss surgery, she would have suggested blood pressure medication. I don’t remember what my pulse rate was before surgery, but I’m taking metoprolol to control heart palpitations, which can lower your pulse rate a little.
I got your postcard from Maine today! Thank you! I’m curious – did you write the same thing on all the ones you sent, or did you change it up on each one? 🙂
I changed it up, though not on each and every one. I’d come up with something I thought I was funny, use that for a while, then change it up after 10 or 20 cards.
* * *
“What the – ?”
“HEY! YOU! GUUUUUUUUUYS!”
All of today’s uploaded pictures are
hither.
* * *
Previously
2005: See that? I made a thinly veiled joke about his age! I am SO FUNNY!
2004: As for where the odd socks go – the bad ones go to hell, don’t they?
2003: Oui, I am back! Let the rejoicing begin!
2002: No entry.
2001: No entry.
2000: So we were at the beach this morning by 10.]]>