I went out clothes shopping with d yesterday. As I said in the previous post, she's recently lost 2.5 stone, so none of her bigger clothes fit her any more. It was fantastic to see the smile on her face as she tried on lower-size, off-the-peg clothes, and they fit her easily for probably the first time since we've been married (about six and a half years now). In fact, it was motivation-boosting - I left off-the-peg behind years ago too, and the last time I tried to get a suit, I had the fairly gruesome experience of going off the top of the scale at my usual High and Mighty (or Big Fat Bastards, as I prefer to think of it) store, and had to go searching for a place that would be prepared to clothe me in something that had neither a drawstring nor a Hawaiian print. So while I'm actually doing this for health reasons, it was tingly to think that I might, by the end of it, be able to wear real human clothes.
Figured I should add a few more details, too. One complicating factor in this quest not to die just yet will be my ankle. Back on New Year's Eve 1997, I got what could reasonably be described as 'the living crap' beaten out of me, and was hospitalised with an ankle that bent in a whole range of new and arresting directions. After a session that wasn't so much 'we can rebuild him...we have the technology' as 'well, we could, but it's New Year's Day, are we really sure we can be arsed?', I ended up with a left ankle full of steel plates and pins and the like. Which, even fourteen years on, means that running would be out of the question even if a) I wanted to, which I really don't, and b) I could do it without that weird, sideways wobbly characteristic of really fat fucks when we run.
One of my favourite sports would probably be out of the question, too. The last time I did anything like this, I was a teenager, and I went down from about 15 stone to 10 stone (oh yeah, I've got form at things like this), by playing an awwwwful lot of badminton. If I tried to play badminton these days, I'd probably snap something.
Not that that means much. Up until a couple of years ago, I was a comparatively healthy fat fuck - in fact, I did a 20 mile walk over the course of a night a few years ago. It was pretty much when I tried to capitalise on that that things went stunningly tits-up. I thought 'Well, I'm quite healthy, let's join a gym and kick this thing...' - and over the course of the next year, I put on two stone of pure fat, and my knees began to hurt when I walked long distances. Personally, I think it had something to do with the warning a friend (who also happens to be a champion slimmer) gave me. She said: "You...erm...you do realise it's not enough to just pay for the gym, right? You actually have to go'.
Hated the gym in any case - it seemed to me that I was the only person there who actually needed to be there, so after that year of occasional gym-going, and eating as though I was going regularly, I did the next logical, expensive thing - I bought a heavy-duty home version of my favourite bit of gym equipment, and started using it. Then I had the heart-attack that wasn't a heart-attack, and was advised not to go back to it till we officially knew what the heart-attack was if it wasn't a heart-attack. Now we know, so the recumbent bike that has pretty much become a hat-rack taking up a third of my living room will be plugged back in tomorrow, in an attempt to increase my activity levels.
Anyhow - I only started thinking about the ankle because almost as soon as I started talking about today and doing more walking, the ankle erupted into weird, sharp pains, almost like it's where I keep my subconscious couch-potato. Nevertheless, I started walking this morning. A short trip, to be sure - only from the house to the local tube station - but better than the buggerall I'm used to. Also, broke my traditional habit of having a McDonalds Breakfast when I got to Kensington (where I work). Juice, water, a bag of tangerines and a bag of raw baby carrots - on which I've been munching all morning, in an attempt to kickstart and keep my metabolism working. Gonna get a proper lunch for the first time in a while, and then have a small something later. Normally of course, I'd be going straight home, but tonight, I have a 'children's writers' group to attend, so I won't get home till about 10PM. Not exactly the best 'routine' day to make a start on, but in preparation for tomorrow, it'll do.
Oh - and it's not only my ankle that seems to be conspiring against me. Tried to weigh myself last night, only to discover that our bathroom scales had died. Have battery, will get replacement on way to writers' group...
Oh and I meant to say - I'll be posting weights every Tuesday morning. I'll also be posting blood sugars on a daily basis. But this isn't supposed to become an endless, pointless series of calorie counts, and lists of what I ate and what I did and yadda yadda yadda - I mean, who wants to read that stuff? (lol if you do, tell me, cos I'm new at this game!). It's gonna be more a litany of events, inspirations, ranting, bitching and moaning about the process I go through. (Shrugs) I have no idea if anyone wants to read that either of course, but as I mentioned at the start, the blog is more to get these things off my magnificent hairy man-breasts than it is to prove particular points or provide a pathway for others to follow.
d made me laugh yesterday. She read the first entry, and said that with my bastard-stubborn streak, I'd probably succeed. Sweet, though of course my bastard-stubborn streak didn't make me go to the gym, or stop bloody eating, so we'll see. What she means though is that I've just passed the one-year mark of what, in light of this new endeavour, might be called 'preliminary bastard-stubbornness'. I've been a diabetic since 1995, but that, to be fair, never really stopped me eating and drinking what I liked. Certainly when I went from diet-control to medication-control, I pretty much treated it as a license not to give a damn. The meds were going in quite regularly, so they'd help me process what I was eating, right?
Well, yeah, sort of, though it was hardly in the spirit of the thing. I also drank a lot of Diet Coke - I mean, up to four or even six litres a day. Now, sure, that was Diet, but it was still full of caramel for colouring and carbonated to buggery. So, after a trip to the States in February 2010, I stopped drinking fizzy liquids, and I stopped eating sweet things - at least as far as puddings, desserts, and snacks were concerned. My doctor - the one who recently offered me the surgery, and so who's really responsible for all this, was thrilled - my blood sugar levels fell over time to be pretty much what they should be, given my age, so there you go; if you're looking for steps to take, there's a couple for you - cut out the fizzy and the desserts, drink a lot more water. Thing is, I still want the sweet stuff. Every day, every hour, I want it. But the bastard-stubborn streak, by now, won't let me. So maybe d's right.
[Munches on a carrot]. Or maybe it's all nonsense, cos this stuff tastes like absolutely no fun at all. Guess we'll start finding out tomorrow.
Monday 28 February 2011
Saturday 26 February 2011
Before we begin
These days, everyone thinks they're fat. Well, two things to keep in mind. Number one, in all probability, you're not as fat as you think you are, so shut the Hell up and enjoy your life.
And number two, you think you're fat, you gotta bring it on, cos I am 5 ft 6 and 290 pounds, alright, so let's talk. You're not that fat? Life is good, eat another piece of cake, go out, get laid, stop worrying. See point number one and lather, rinse, repeat.
Me? I'm really fat. I mean Santa Claus, Prince Regent, Henry VIII and then some fat. I'm talking medical emergency, slap a health warning on that ass fat. So fat, in fact, that the last time I saw my doctor, he said "Wow, I don't say this often, but man, you should really think about a gastric sleeve."
Now, either my doctor's on drugs, which, since he's an NHS doctor is not out of the question, or this name is very misleading. A gastric sleeve, according to my doc, isn't a sleeve at all. It's an operation where they basically cut away half your stomach, to stop you eating anywhere near what you're used to, and essentially forcing your weight down before your heart explodes, your lungs cave in, your joints turn to dust and you die.
All in all, it was a cheerful meeting.
I gave it some thought. Cutting away half your stomach is a pretty drastic measure, and it's not something you should consider unless there's a real medical danger to you if you don't do it. That's the stage I'm at.
And I was going to go through with it. I really was. But when it came to it, some...seed, some hard, bitter, stubborn-as-a-troll little seed in my nature just wouldn't let me do it just yet. Not until I was sure I'd tried every other thing I could try. Because here's the thing - I'm a Type 2 diabetic, and I have been for 16 years. And waaaay back at the start, the doctors told me that basically, if I lost a whole lot of weight, I could 'cure' myself of the condition. Now it's 16 years on, I'm heavier than ever, and the diabetes is really starting to play. It's given me some retinopathy in my left eye, it's tinkering with the idea of kicking me in the kidneys, and late last year, I had what evvverybody thought was a heart attack. As it turned out, it wasn't a heart attack, it was tachycardia, brought on by the diabetes, maintained by the weight. So there's a reality to the idea of me eating myself to death.
And that pisses me off. I hate that, because I take pride in my own rationality, and it's irrational to eat yourself to what, given my otherwise good state of health, it would be fair to call an early death.
So I'm embarking on a year-long quest of stubbornness, grueling effort and in all probability, hunger, to try and take myself out of the danger zone and escape the need to go under the knife. Maybe I'll succeed, maybe I won't, and if I don't, I'll still have the option of going for the surgery. But at least then I'll know, in my heart of hearts, that it'll be medically necessary, and that I will have tried everything else first.
So why the blog? Honestly? Because it's what we do now. We chronicle our every waking thought like it's a work of genius, and we put it out there for the whole world to see, if the world can freaking find it of course. Time was, people used to write diaries to get them through things like this. They did the job, they were cathartic, but they were also private, and you could throw them on the fire at the end if you wanted to. Nowadays, we blog. Hence the blog. It's not really meant as a work of art, it's basically a diary of everything involved in this quest for non-surgical survival. Like it, don't like it, it doesn't really matter. If it helps other fat fucks at all, then that's a bonus.
So what else do you need to know. Well, I turn 40 this year, so that'll be fun. The height and weight you've got. My name's Tony, and I'm married to a beautiful American called Donna, who prefers to be known as d (yep, lower case), and who loves to cook (so no challenge there then!) and who has the temerity to have lost 35 pounds recently. I work as the editor at a vaguely scientific learned institute in London, England. I'm diabetic, and I'm going to start testing my blood again daily when this project really kicks in - which it does on March 1st, 2011.
I figure I can do it more precisely that way - 1st March-1st March. Doctors tell me that it's only really 'safe' to lose 2 pounds a week. 52 weeks, at 2 pounds a week, equals 104 pounds, or near-as-dammit 7.5 stone, for my fellow Brits. If I can lose that sort of weight in a year, according to the NHS, I'll still be classified as overweight, but I'll have come back from the brink of morbid obesity, traveled through ordinary, lardass obesity, and into 'just' overweight territory - I'll also be just around 28 pounds short of my alleged ideal weight for my age and height.
So come along if you want to, as I try to become the disappearing man. Who knows, we might all learn a little something as we go.
And number two, you think you're fat, you gotta bring it on, cos I am 5 ft 6 and 290 pounds, alright, so let's talk. You're not that fat? Life is good, eat another piece of cake, go out, get laid, stop worrying. See point number one and lather, rinse, repeat.
Me? I'm really fat. I mean Santa Claus, Prince Regent, Henry VIII and then some fat. I'm talking medical emergency, slap a health warning on that ass fat. So fat, in fact, that the last time I saw my doctor, he said "Wow, I don't say this often, but man, you should really think about a gastric sleeve."
Now, either my doctor's on drugs, which, since he's an NHS doctor is not out of the question, or this name is very misleading. A gastric sleeve, according to my doc, isn't a sleeve at all. It's an operation where they basically cut away half your stomach, to stop you eating anywhere near what you're used to, and essentially forcing your weight down before your heart explodes, your lungs cave in, your joints turn to dust and you die.
All in all, it was a cheerful meeting.
I gave it some thought. Cutting away half your stomach is a pretty drastic measure, and it's not something you should consider unless there's a real medical danger to you if you don't do it. That's the stage I'm at.
And I was going to go through with it. I really was. But when it came to it, some...seed, some hard, bitter, stubborn-as-a-troll little seed in my nature just wouldn't let me do it just yet. Not until I was sure I'd tried every other thing I could try. Because here's the thing - I'm a Type 2 diabetic, and I have been for 16 years. And waaaay back at the start, the doctors told me that basically, if I lost a whole lot of weight, I could 'cure' myself of the condition. Now it's 16 years on, I'm heavier than ever, and the diabetes is really starting to play. It's given me some retinopathy in my left eye, it's tinkering with the idea of kicking me in the kidneys, and late last year, I had what evvverybody thought was a heart attack. As it turned out, it wasn't a heart attack, it was tachycardia, brought on by the diabetes, maintained by the weight. So there's a reality to the idea of me eating myself to death.
And that pisses me off. I hate that, because I take pride in my own rationality, and it's irrational to eat yourself to what, given my otherwise good state of health, it would be fair to call an early death.
So I'm embarking on a year-long quest of stubbornness, grueling effort and in all probability, hunger, to try and take myself out of the danger zone and escape the need to go under the knife. Maybe I'll succeed, maybe I won't, and if I don't, I'll still have the option of going for the surgery. But at least then I'll know, in my heart of hearts, that it'll be medically necessary, and that I will have tried everything else first.
So why the blog? Honestly? Because it's what we do now. We chronicle our every waking thought like it's a work of genius, and we put it out there for the whole world to see, if the world can freaking find it of course. Time was, people used to write diaries to get them through things like this. They did the job, they were cathartic, but they were also private, and you could throw them on the fire at the end if you wanted to. Nowadays, we blog. Hence the blog. It's not really meant as a work of art, it's basically a diary of everything involved in this quest for non-surgical survival. Like it, don't like it, it doesn't really matter. If it helps other fat fucks at all, then that's a bonus.
So what else do you need to know. Well, I turn 40 this year, so that'll be fun. The height and weight you've got. My name's Tony, and I'm married to a beautiful American called Donna, who prefers to be known as d (yep, lower case), and who loves to cook (so no challenge there then!) and who has the temerity to have lost 35 pounds recently. I work as the editor at a vaguely scientific learned institute in London, England. I'm diabetic, and I'm going to start testing my blood again daily when this project really kicks in - which it does on March 1st, 2011.
I figure I can do it more precisely that way - 1st March-1st March. Doctors tell me that it's only really 'safe' to lose 2 pounds a week. 52 weeks, at 2 pounds a week, equals 104 pounds, or near-as-dammit 7.5 stone, for my fellow Brits. If I can lose that sort of weight in a year, according to the NHS, I'll still be classified as overweight, but I'll have come back from the brink of morbid obesity, traveled through ordinary, lardass obesity, and into 'just' overweight territory - I'll also be just around 28 pounds short of my alleged ideal weight for my age and height.
So come along if you want to, as I try to become the disappearing man. Who knows, we might all learn a little something as we go.
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