Intro to the Weightloss Chronicles or as it's most recently become affectionately referred to: Go fuck yourself.

When I was 25 I regarded gastric bypass as nothing more than a heinous punishment for the morbidly obese created by the medical society.  However my therapist's PCP had recently attended a seminar for the Roux-en-Y and was quite impressed with the recent medical breakthroughs.  So 26 had rolled over and in July of 2003 I began researching this surgery.

In truth I was desperately in need of this surgery.  At the time I topped the scales at 430 and my BMI was a staggering 80 in comparison to a normal 24.  Options were quickly diminishing as I'd arrived at the point where a mere few steps tired me out.  While I suffered from none of the usual co-morbidities: diabetes, high blood pressure, over the top cholesterol, sleep apnea, etc -- this was obviously no way for a person to live.

This is the story of my journey through WLS beginning in July 2003 -- chronicling the events before, during and surgery, and of course all the complications, hardships it entailed, but also the triumphs and victories.

This isn't one those preachy, "Here's what I think you should do stories."  It's just my story -- take from it what you will.

If you'd like to start at the beginning try here.

This was me at 430

Found this lil article in Word dated: 10/26/07.  Never made it to the website, but I believe it speaks for itself as to why:

I’m sorry, I’ve been personally ignoring the hell outta everybody; don’t call, don’t take calls, don’t write, don’t return text messages, etc…  In fact I make it onto the Internet maybe twice a month.

I’m very tired.  Blood pressure at this moment is 81/41 and resting heart rate is 111. 

I have a doctor’s appointment with a specialist to go over my latest lab results.  Personally I’m not feeling very confident.

What was a severe back ache turned out to be a very sick thyroid gland, failing adrenal glands  and the heartrate is a lil under the weather.

The test results revealed I was dangerously low on everything.  For instance: My Vitamin D was at level 4.  I have the lab results and plan on scanning and inserting them into my website for all to see.

Plus another organ was having problems: the spleen.  I never had time to name him (yes I named all my other organs who were having difficulties).  Anyways my red blood cells were too large to pass through the spleen.  Not surprisingly this caused severe anemia. 

Spleen’s cries of anguish and constant swearing could be heard throughout my entire body.  Naturally the other organs became concerned and a bit fearful.

Steve (my thyroid gland) passed a message down to Spleen: Dude, what’s happening?  Are you ok?

Spleen: There’s a bunch of fucking huge red blood cells trying to squeeze through me.  I have no idea where they came from.

Steve: How big are they?

Spleen: Let’s put it this way:  It’s like being sodomized with a watermelon.

Steve: Ouch

Spleen: How are you holding up?

Steve: I’ve just been trying to keep a low profile; hoping the white blood cells won’t notice me…  Oh shit!  I’ve gotta go!

Spleen: Why has Ian (my heart and he insists on pronouncing it Ian) been wigging out lately?  He’s a goddamn motor mouth; never shutsup. 

George and Martha (my kidneys): It’s Daryl and his other brother Daryl (my adrenal glands); they’re overworked and keep passing out.

George: Speaking of passing out, I’m gonna have a lil lie down myself. Martha you’re on watch duty.

Martha: Fuck you George; you just had a nap earlier.

George: *snoring*

Martha: Screw it; nothing should go horribly wrong in just the next two hours.

Spleen: Is there anyone around here who isn’t napping?

Ian: I’mnotnapping,Ineversleep. There’slotstobedone. Gogogo! Dododo! IfIstoptalkingI’lldie.

Spleen: Yeah I figured you were awake.

Geoffrey (my brain and demands his name be pronounced Joffrey): Mittens!

Spleen: That’s not a good sign

Old Ben (my pituitary gland): Earl (my colon) is always awake.

Spleen: Why?

Old Ben: He really doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

Spleen: All this conversation has made me sleepy; think I’m gonna take a lil nap as well.

This the letter we sent out to family and friends for Christmas; many thought they had accidentally wound up on The Grim Reaper's Christmas card list.

Dear Family and Friends,

            Tis the season where we are normally fully involved in the whirlwind of preparing Christmas cards, buying, wrapping and shipping Christmas presents, adorning the house and yard with enthusiastically tacky decorations and cooking mountains of food we don’t need, so foist off on neighbors and friends.  But this year we find ourselves in a subdued mood, pondering the frailty of life and fortune – yet grateful for the blessings we continue to receive.

            Just a few days ago, we had to rush Brooke to Clovis Community Hospital in California’s Central Valley for emergency treatment and surgery.  It had become clear that the distal revision surgery she had in September of 2006 had failed and was forcing her body into organ failure; despite lots of weight-loss, she was listless and weak, with dangerously low blood pressure, high heartbeat, plummeting cholesterol levels and borderline psychotic episodes.  She was admitted through the emergency room at Clovis and immediately hooked up to an IV; she continued on the IV for four and a half days, being pumped full of the fluid and essential nutrients that her body had simply been flushing through her colon without being absorbed at all.  When her blood levels were normalized to the point that the doctor felt she could survive surgery, she was rolled into the operating room for a reversal of the distal.  Her surgeon, Dr. Daniel Swartz of Fresno, was able to perform the procedure laparoscopically without difficulty.

            What an incredible relief.  Brooke is making rapid progress in her recovery.  She was basically dangerously dehydrated and malnourished because the distal bypassed 600cm of small intestine, which prevented virtually any absorption of nutrients and fluids.  If she had not received emergency treatment when she did, it is almost certain that we would have lost her.

            As a result of this, we respectfully urge persons considering any form of gastric bypass to research very carefully the procedures, possible complications, long-term effects, available reversals and the surgeon.  We thought we did all those things when we decided on Dr. Edward Felix of Fresno, a laparoscopy pioneer and highly respected gastric surgeon.  Dr. Felix performed Brooke’s first procedure, supposedly a normal Roué-en-y that bypasses 150cm of the small intestine; he insisted that he was the most skilled to perform Brooke’s surgery.  When she began to suffer several instances of life-threatening complications, Dr. Felix handed Brooke’s case over to his partner, Dr. Swartz, and accused Brooke of causing her own complications by breaking post-surgery rules (he was WRONG).  After two difficult years of complications (including one Christmas in the hospital) and then another year of weight gain despite diet and exercise, Dr. Swartz advised a revision of Brooke’s Roué-en-y to a distal, an arrangement with its own set of life-limiting problems but successful for most people.  In September of 2006, when Dr. Swartz performed the revision to distal, he was shocked to discover that Dr. Felix had failed to bypass 150cm of intestine (which is the normal procedure and the one I had), that Dr. Felix had only bypassed 100cm – thereby reducing Brooke’s “window of opportunity” by 30%!

            When a Roué-en-y gastric bypass is done correctly, i.e., bypassing 150cm, the patient is availed of an 18 month “window of opportunity” during which the patient can lose up to 60% of their excess body weight, presenting an enormous opportunity for a healthier life.  This window is caused by the surgery’s effects on the body itself, the new plumbing and the mal-absorption rate of the reduced intestinal tract.  While we had assumed Brooke’s complications were randomly aberrant results, we now feel that the senior doctor’s arrogance, thoughtlessness and lack of detailed attention during Brooke’s original surgery were a major contributor to the problems that resulted.  He did not inform me after her surgery that he only bypassed 100cm; she was his last surgery of the day, and he made it obvious that he was anxious to get outta there!  He did not inform his partner when he passed Brooke’s care to him.  We will not take any action against him because any action would affect his partner.  Besides, legal recourse rarely benefits ordinary citizens; the laws are crafted to favor the rich and only throw sufficient crumbs to the rest of us to keep us satisfied.

            So watch your back.  Doctors aren’t perfect, just as we aren’t.  Don’t be afraid to ask questions that may annoy the doctor.  It’s YOUR body, and you walk around in it every day; the doctor gets a gander at you in your birthday suit once or twice a year, and he usually has to read the chart to remember your name.  The cost of medical care mandates that you have the right to question your health-care providers.  We had to self-pay for Brooke’s distal revision based on the insurance company’s glib decision that it was not necessary.  So it is likely that the insurance will not cover this latest operation, despite her life being in danger.  Since neither Russ or I are presently employed, this potentially ruinous obligation looms in our future – and it all could have been prevented if Dr. Edward Felix had done his job.

            Yup.  We are both unemployment statistics.  Russ lost his job in the summer; gasoline hauling is a volatile business favoring owner operators these days.  I was on disability starting in January of 2005 because of a failed knee prosthetic.  Although I had successful gastric bypass in April of 2005, and a successful replacement of my left knee prosthetic in August of 2005 AND I was read y to go back to work by October 2005, Northrop Grumman left me fall through one of their yawning bureaucratic cracks.  I left voice mail, I e-mailed, I even applied for jobs I qualified for on their web site:  the silence was deafening.   Finally I attracted the attention of the head of HR and received a fair termination package in March of 2007.  So imagine my surprise when on one day in June of 2007, I am notified by Northrop Grumman HR that they paid me too much termination pay, AND I am called by an excited Northrop Grumman technical recruiter wanting to hire me back at the very same Navy base where I once worked.  Hmmmmmm, she pondered, what a coincidence.  I was full of ambivalence and rampant suspicion.  Suspicious?  you say – of the government?  But I tried to qualm my fears by requesting that an accommodation agreement concerning my prosthetic knees’ limitations be drawn up and agreed upon.  I was assured that Northrop Grumman’s bungling of my previous disability was one of those rare Snafus that occasionally surface at leviathan corporations.  After all, SBC had continued to issue me paychecks for three months after my retirement, and they behaved in a good-natured way, simply readjusting my retirement date to a later date.  Still it took Northrop Grumman’s HR and Legal departments until the first of September to wrestle with these issues of my return to work on the day after Labor Day.

            But returning to the base as a Northrop Grumman employee was a huge mistake.  I was the naïve victim of a petty conspiracy concocted by low-level civil service management employees to rid themselves of the costly and arrogant defense contracting firm, Northrop Grumman.  It was made clear to me that I would be expected to perform all the physical tasks that the accommodation agreement had listed as forbidden.  For a month, Northrop Grumman did not enter me as an active employee in their database, thereby preventing me from entering my time card, receiving a paycheck and enrolling for benefits.  For a month and a half, the Navy could not find me a desk or computer; they would not give me access to the systems.  In spite of my 37 years experience, I was told that within 6 months, I must pass a professional certification exam to retain employment.  So I spent the next 2 weeks feverishly studying material covered in Linux and security tests so that I could take an exam and get that all-important piece of paper.

            However, in late October I was soberly informed that my progress was unsatisfactory and I was facing termination.  Reeling with shock, I wondered about the whispered rumors I had heard that the civil servants were manipulating situations to rid themselves of Northrop Grumman, a notoriously expensive defense contractor (one of many whose greedy corporate fingers are rooting around in the government’s pockets (translation: OUR pockets) for any coin of the realm they can palm in the name of national security.)

            So I was a stupid pawn in the hands of a minimally talented civil service manager – who will, no doubt, earn a bonus next year for these machinations – a pawn he used to force Northrop Grumman out.  I was shattered.  Luckily, since my employment had not even lasted 90 days and the accommodation agreement was being violated, I was re-instated to disability status with the company who had been paying my disability benefits since 2005.

            Well.  If you have sloughed your way through these dispiriting narratives, I commend your tenacity and humbly appreciate your attention.

            Now – to the Season:

            There is nothing like 2 months without a paycheck to make you appreciate the true spirit of Christmas, the spirituality and compassion of the season and the importance of love for our families and friends.  Visualize me – the consummate consumer – clipping grocery coupons and forgoing lavish gifts; I am properly humbled.  I have tried to avoid the glittering stores crowded with giddy shoppers being serenaded with MUZAK of the holiday persuasion.

            But the other day, still unpacking bags from Clovis and boxes of my property from the base, I thought of that wonderful song from the musical “Auntie Mame”  -- “We Need a Little Christmas”

            And we do.  We always do.  During wars and after terrorist attacks, during bleak times and joyful too, we need a little Christmas – right this very minute.  The manifestation doesn’t have to be piles of dazzlingly wrapped boxes under an elaborately festive tree.  After all, this Christmas Rusty and I have our daughter, our only child – alive, recovering, smiling, laughing and sounding like the Brooke we all knew and loved.  Perhaps a little glitter, a beautiful wreath made by a friend, a few Ritz cracker cookies and the promise of Christmas Day spent with loved ones – perhaps that is just what we need.

            We pray that you and yours are well, and that life is treating like the grand person you are.  God has rescued our family more than once, and we rejoice that His love has no boundaries.

            Though sometimes we have cynical thoughts about the season only living in our credit card statements – on and on with accumulating interest -- we all know its home is our hearts.  This year has certainly taught me just what matters: a smattering of Christmas accoutrement and the chance to remember  -- and be remembered by -- scores of folks we love and treasure.

 

Ya know after the town folk finally conceded that indeed there was no "putting Humpty Dumpty back together again", someone chimed in and asked, "Why the hell did we put him on top of that wall in the first place?"

This is not how I want to live my life; it's certainly not the future I envisioned before my first surgery. I'm happy to see it's worked for so many others, but I will never again boast of its great tidings of unfathomable weight loss.

How?  Please tell me how I'm supposed to ingest 20+ pills in the morning, not including my powder crap.  Good ol' Powder Crap came along after revision surgery to slow my digestion and keep the "Hey you guys!  I just crapped my pants again!", to a minimum. 

What the fuck is Hydrocortisone and why do I need to take it 3 times daily?

Who the hell has low cholesterol?  Seriously.  I was told I need more fat in my diet:  Dude, I buy avocados every time they're on sale and have also become quite chummy with my friend Hummus, roasted vegetable sandwich, etc, etc...  Apparently I'm just not absorbing any fat at all.

And now, the end is here

My adrenal gland's asleep and my thyroid is comatose.  To wake the buggers up I have to increase my Synthroid, but (and this is the best part) this must be done very gradually.  Why you ask? Well it turns out that too much thyroid hormone will toss ya into congestive heart failure.  (The good part's comin up, I'm super cereal).

Oh my, well what are the symptoms to this affliction?

Heart palpitations, feeling restless, nervous, etc...

Ummm, aren't those also common symptoms for panic attacks?

YES!  Is that fuckin hysterical or what?

By the way, could ya do me a favor and not call the cops?  Never cared anyway, just wanted notoriety on one of the many lame (which is purty much all of 'em) message boards the Internet has to offer.  Besides, I'm not going anywhere; Craig's decided to go into political science and wants to become a Senator.  And I wanna be there in my wheelchair, shitting my pants when he's sworn in.

Somewhere…

I know, I know; I’ve been silent but it’s hard to make your mind work when it feels like someone’s using a jackhammer on your spine.  And all ya seem to be doing is counting down the minutes till you can take more pain pills.

Rolled outta bed this afternoon with typical searing pain and Jabba the Hut staring back at me from my mirrored closet doors; that is if Jabba wore mint green jammies with lil kitties on ‘em.  At this point in time it’s hard not to think, “And I went through all that to still feel and look like this?”  However I did hop on the scale and learned I had lost another pound: “Alright, I guess I’ll go on then.”  This now brings us to a total of 24 pounds lost, but how much do I have to lose for my back to stop screaming?

So anyways, I’m no longer spending most of my time in the bathroom.  I know you guys were totally on the edge of your seat about that.  For awhile there I was having very nasty withdrawal symptoms from Effexor since it’s a time released capsule and none of the lil beads seemed to be absorbing.  So they put me on the regular Effexor, however since I was taking the maximum dosage prior they automatically prescribed the same amount.  Turns out taking too much Effexor has very similar symptoms to withdrawal.  Anyways I played experiment and found half the dosage normalized me and no longer made me feel like a paranoid schizophrenic.

I’m not kidding about the paranoid schizophrenia.  I could not focus on anything, 5 or 10 minutes tops.  And I saw things that weren’t really there.  Yeah seriously; like spiders, monsters and people who are dead.  Mix that all together with constant heart palpitations and you got one serious nightmare going on.  

I’ve got portable and cordless back massagers I can drag all over the house, now I just need a laptop to go with ‘em.  I promise next time I’m drugged up good I’ll try and tell ya all that happened and fill in the blanks.

If I wasn’t stuck on the toilet I’d totally be out there kicking your ass.  Huh, maybe all those lil floaters are all my medications zippin on through.  That would explain why I’ve yet to have any relief in my back or abdomen.

Dr. Swartz wasn’t in today so I got to see the pretend surgeon.  First of all, if I hadn’t mentioned the bruising, tightness and pain he never woulda looked at my incisions.  As long as I’ve been going there they use staples on your incision to stop ya up.  Do I have staples?  Do I need something removed?  Would anyone like to share any information with me?  So according to play surgeon those bruises and pain are normal.  When we asked how long the pain would last he said that it’d be anywhere from a few weeks to months.  If you recall (or your own surgery for that matter) I never had much pain and Mother’s went away in just a few days.  Mine pulls on the incisions every step I take; it hurts to bend over, it hurts to reach for something, blah blah blah.  

When it came to the nutritional questions Dr. “I pooped my pants” was completely lost.  

DR. DILDO: Oh no, lots of people have trouble with dairy products.  You were lactose intolerant before right?

ME: No

DR. DILDO: Oh… ummm…  Well you should be fine then or wait and see. *thumbsup*

ME: Is fiber no longer encouraged?  Can I have cooked vegetables or salads?

DR. DILDO: Oh well lots of patients have trouble with salads after this surgery.  If it can’t be digested it’ll just pass on through undigested.  Could you eat salads before?

ME: Yes

DR. DILDO: Oh well I’m sure it will be fine then or maybe you should test it out.

ME: I have a common channel of 100cm; I originally had a 150 cm bypass, so how much small intestines do I have bypassed now?

DR. DILDO: Oh ummm, let’s see.  Well there’s 8 feet of small intestines so that would make it… No that’s not right…

ME: There’s 12

DR. DILDO: Right so 12 feet that would be ummm… 6 feet, 6 feet you had bypassed.

What a moron; let’s play the round it off game and we have 365 cm in 12 feet.  Now let’s all add 150 to 100.  I dunno about you all but my calculator says 250.  Actually I have about 3 ft of intestines left and about 9 ft bypass, or 265 cm bypassed.

I went on to ask him about the constant gas, both belching and down under, and he said that was totally normal with this surgery too.  He actually went through this lil spiel about how gas is just a part of surgery; it was so darling.  So apparently I’m supposed to expect and get bloating, constant gas pain, belching; even from drinking water.  Yeah you heard me; I have all these symptoms after just drinking water.

I finally made him piss his pants and run off, mumbling something about getting Dr. Swartz.  Dr. Swartz wasn’t in the office today; there was no schedule for him to be in the office today.  By this time I turned over and faced the wall.  I overheard his conversation with Dr. Felix out in the hall (I don’t eavesdrop, I’m just an excellent listener); he mentioned me having diarrhea more than 8 times a day and Dr. Felix replied, “Oh no, that’s not good at all.”  Then he completely changed subjects and was talking about how Dr. Dildo liked Fresno and his wife back in Arizona, probably something about golf.  Oh the laughter and the tee hee hees.  

Dr. Dildo prescribed 4 Imodium Advanced a day and more if needed.  On our way out we met up with Dr. Felix in the hallway, all I could think is that if he has any inkling in that smarmy brain of his he will not say a word to me.  Instead he was a moron and said, “Oh hey, how you doin?”  I just hissed at him.  He was bumfuzzled for a moment but then got all uppity and was demanding to know what I said to him to which I replied, “I didn’t say anything to you; I hissed at you.”  Goddamn short lil kike doctor.  I’m beginning to think there was excellent reasoning behind everyone trying to wipe out the Jews, or at least kick ‘em outta their country, for the past couple millennia.

So we’re staying another night and supposed to see Dr. Swartz tomorrow.  

Oh wait I forgot to tell you the funny part!  I weighed 329 for my pre-op appt; the next day in the hospital I weighed 321 (same type of scales and wearing the same exact clothes); this morning I weighed 326; I couldn’t help but laugh when I stepped off the scales.  

By the way, Mother made me some real food because prior I was refusing to eat anything, but I figured if I was to eat and shit it back out it may as well be damn good.  So she made some mashed potatoes with turkey burger crumbled up in some gravy.  Twenty minutes later it was banging on the door to be released, and this was after I had taken all my pills plus the Imodium Advanced before I ever ate.

What idiot would have a revision of the same surgery that managed to ruin their life three years prior?

I’M THAT IDIOT!

No real surprise there.  

Once again the nurses were absolutely fabulous.  There was this sweet anesthesiologist nurse.  The day before it had occurred to me folks in the medical professional that I liked and admired had seen me naked.  This was a very disturbing thought.  It worse when the whole idea of the catheter came about, however this gal was cool and sweet I decided it to allow her to get to third base with me.  It was kinda funny, I didn’t count but I had the oxygen mask on and the anesthesiologist was doin his thing.  She tells her patients to imagine a wonderful dream.  Which she did, but you know me; I’m lying there and I said, “I’m not asleep yet.”  

COOL NURSE: In just a couple seconds you will be.  There we go.  Goodnight Sweetheart.  

It’s true things were getting mildly fuzzy but…

ME: I’m still not asleep.

COOL NURSE: Have a wonderful dream.

ME: I can’t, I still not asleep.

And that’s the last thing I remember.  By the way, everyone was incredibly nice towards me during the day of surgery because I couldn’t stop crying.  They’re rolling me down the hall; I’m staring up at the ceiling thinking of that David Gray song The One I Love:


Now I’m Leakin Life Faster than I’m Leakin Blood
Tell the Reaper Man
And the Stars Above
That You’re the One I Love

It’s actually Tell the Repo Man, but this song has either been used or was originally meant for Laguna Beach.  So change a few words and it actually becomes a much cooler song.

Anyways I’m getting tired so I’ll to tell you all about the surgery and the hospital later; right now we have to get to the reason why I’m on here in the first place.

Things need to be written before they’re forgotten.  Although… there is that story about my raging panic attack and how they wheeled me off for a few tests to which I’ve yet to see the results from (However I’m sure we’ll see the bill. Looks like Clovis will be getting more than just $12,000 – good for them).  Bleh, and my roommate who constantly moaned; loud, not pleasurable but I’m dying type of moan.  It totally kicked ass, but I’ll write about that later.

Unfortunately I was treated and given instructions for a RNY gastric bypass patient.  Yeah these really don’t apply to me; my pouch and stoma weren’t even touched.  When I first got to my room the nurse gave me some ice chips then said I could move up to water but I’d have to sip.  She also gave me a one ounce cup to remind me of my pouch size.  All surgeons will tell you that your pouch will expand to 2 to 3 ounces or a bit more depending on your situation – it’s normal.  I don’t guzzle water anymore, but I pretty much drink fairly normal and like I used to.

ME: But I had a revision and they didn’t even touch the pouch.

NURSE: Well we don’t want you taxing the small intestine they moved.

Dr. Swartz honest to God told me I could have solid food by my second day, which of course floored me.

ME: Huh? You mean mushy type solid food right?

DR. SWARTZ: No I mean solid, solid type food.

ME: Seriously?

DR. SWARTZ: If mushy solids will make you feel comfortable I have no problem with you trying that for a lil while.

ME: Well you are the surgeon here so I guess you know what you’re talking about.

First day was liquids; it’s what Dr. Swartz said so I was expecting it.  Second was also liquids – huh.  This surgery is less dangerous than the first, but they never took me off that fucking IV again until it was time to go home, and believe me when I say: I drank buckets.

During my discharge the surgeon doing his fellowship with Dr. Swartz and other guy told me I was to eat soft foods.  Huh?  My discharge papers said right on the top: Instructions for the RNY gastric bypass patient.  Yeah thanks.  

I’m also not sure if the blood clot was a big threat as it was for the bypass surgery.  Plus!  My lil incision in the middle of my abdomen has grown a bruise the size of Rhode Island.  I never ever got a bruise from my first surgery; got the pictures to prove it.  I also never had any incision pain.  Not only do I have incision pain now, but it’s also hard and painful around the incisions.  Is that normal?  Well I don’t have a fucking clue because noone has bothered to share much.

So for the last couple days I’ve been hanging out on the toilet shitting my brains out; all the weight loss in the world isn’t worth that.  Fortunately my Vicodin and muscle relaxers tend to work in my favor and turn off the faucet.  Besides drinking water my first day I ate ½ cup of lowfat, midget curd cottage cheese and a cup of cream of chicken soup.  Today I had the same amount of cottage cheese, a sugar free popsicle and 1 scrambled egg.  Totally badass foods eh?  I actually wouldn’t mind a popsicle now, but since I’ve taken my pills I’m scared to death to eat anything or even finish a bottle of water.  There are some fat free refried beans in there that I’m terrified to go near.  There’s oatmeal but I’m suddenly unsure of dairy products now.

It’s kinda like that old recycled joke I heard as a lil kid about a polish guy; as the years go by you just change the ethnicity.  So I guess we would use Muslims, Islamics or sand niggers.  Well probably not that last one, how bout this?

How do you make a terrorist nuts?

Tell him to go into a strip bar and find 77 virgins.

Ok that was mine, this one’s real now:

How do you make a terrorist go crazy?

Put him inna round room and tell him to pee inna corner.

I think I see how this surgery works now: I don’t want to live my life on the toilet so I become terrified.  I just went from Bulimic to Anorexic; I’m movin on up!

See you kids on the other side; I promise.

I got to meet Susan from soontobeanewme.blogspot.com She's totally cool and we had great fun chattin. 

Oh, you wanna know what we talked about eh?  Pffft!  Well ya better show up for our pow-wow next time.

So I accompanied Mother to her one year post-op visit with the surgeon.  I seriously considered having her drop me off some place while she went to the appointment.  I always enjoy seeing doctor Swartz, plus this would be the appointment where she got to view her before picture in comparison, but let’s face it; I cannot handle going to that office.  Patients breezing in and out bragging how they’ve maintained for two years and how their life is so wonderful, and don’t forget the walls plastered with an inconceivable number of 100+ pound weight loss before and after pictures.  It’s enough to make me stab my eyes out or walk in front of a bus.

Mother’s lost a total of 140 pounds and got to take her cute lil after picture.  She mentioned to Dr. Swartz that she really doesn’t enjoy eating anymore.  She loves to savor the first bite or two, but because she can’t eat much the admiration is gone.  Suddenly a deep and wide canyon grew between us; I had wondered why she just opted for soup all the time but I had no idea that’s how she really felt.  This has always been one of our unbreakable bonds:  We heart food.  But now occasionally I need binoculars to see her and she’s drifted so far away – I haven’t shared this with her yet.

I still love food; damn, hell, ass love it!  Not just one particular dish or variety, but all types.  I still loved food when I was vomiting it up.  You’d think the opposite, but…  I did go through a period where I quit eating but that was just out of desperation.  My admiration is still glowing and fiercely loyal now just as it was before surgery.

So to add a bitter lil bing cherry on top of this fun filled visit, a man came skipping up behind me with the swelling of pride and dick-in-his-eye look of one who’s lost a great deal of weight and can’t wait to yap about it.  I was waiting for Mother to bring the car around and poked my damn eye out started a conversation.

DUMBASS OLD FART: So, you gonna have it done?

I turned to him with a deadpan face and the voice of a soulless possessed Linda Blair, “I had it done nearly three years ago.  It failed.”

CLUELESS OLD FART: Oh… well…  I was really lucky…  Although I was really sick in the beginning.

With the same voice and glassy eyed stare that bore through his faltering happy go lucky expression, “So was I.”

Now slightly terrified dumbass old fart is quickly shuffling away to his car, calls out but does not turn to face me for fear of turning into stone, “Well I hope things work out for you.”

I raised my voice just enough for him to hear, “I seriously doubt you give shit.”  Then I stared at the pavement and said, “I wish I was dead.”

As a gag, the night before, I made an annoyingly peppy cd for our lil trip.  When I opened the car door I begged, “Please, please stop the peppy music; I’m not up for it.”

I know you've all been asking and wondering but the wait is finally over.  After numerous problems and setbacks I finally received that revision I needed.  Unfortunately due to the insurance forcing me to change surgeons and opt for a much more invasive surgery, ridiculous as it sounds, I've actually become way too skinny.

I do implore you to research all surgeries to learn which best fits your needs.  I am not a cheerleader for any particular surgery.  Just because I had the RNY doesn’t necessarily mean it’s for you.

The following are helpful links that include not only information but stories from patients.

http://www.duodenalswitch.com/

Duodenal switch forum    

http://www.lap-band-surgery.org/

Lap-Band forum

RNY forum 

With RNY being the darling of WLS there doesn’t seem to be one site that's dedicated entirely to information only, or at least none that I’ve been able to find.  Most are personal webpages or surgeon’s websites.  So in this case I’m going to add my own surgeon’s site. 

http://bariatricsurgeons.com/home.htm

‘Member the elated feeling I experienced after my tiara wearing doctor’s appointment?  Yeah I’d like to get back to that now.  Oh right, I was denied.  Yeah yeah, we’re going to appeal; blah blah blah.  

Doctor told me the other day (in reference to my back) that I’ll have to learn to live with pain.  I just blinked several times.  While I totally respect my physician and vice versa, well…  I just kept on blinking and staring.  First of all having never dealt with chronic back problems this came as a bit of a shock.  Second, it turns out my own theory of popping my back into place turns out to have been my demise.  

Mother had her legs sawed in half; there a people with rods in their spine and very large screws placed strategically within their bone structure.  How can lower back pain possibly be this debilitating?  I used think I was cold-hearted, kick ass strong.  I suffered through months of gall bladder attacks at 17 until they finally figured out the source.  Then I got to experience gall bladder surgery and let me tell ya:  Laparoscopic surgery wasn’t so easy-breezy eleven years ago while being performed in the Midwest.  I did have six smaller incisions, however one on my lower abdomen wound up being about five inches long.  That same day, a few hours later, I went to the bathroom and wiped my ass all by myself.  The next morning I dressed myself, including bending over and pulling up my pants.  I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for an entire month after that surgery.

Then there was the bounding out of bed just after the bypass surgery; numerous endoscopies while wide awake.  So is this real honest to God pain, or am I just totally wussing out?

Vicodin’s addictive, that’s nothing new.  But non-narcotic painkillers may as well be Tic-Tacs as far as I’m concerned.  If anything they’ve made my condition worse:  I may never shit again and all the oatmeal and Flaxmeal in the world can’t save me now.  Ultram’s only managed to make my head pound.  And even though I’m taking two Protonix a day now, someone is managing to make me nauseous.  So big whoop?  What’s wrong with being addicted to Vicodin if it keeps me functional, happy and pain free?

Insurance has denied my request for a revision.  Funny enough they stated in their letter that they felt the Biliopancreatic Diversion with Duodenal Switch would be much safer than a one hour operation bypassing more intestines.

Actually this letter came two days ago and I was the last one to find out.  This would explain why Mother was cranky and strung out on Ativan last night.

It took me a month to get my Upper GI results faxed to the surgeon’s office.  I must have called at least a dozen times:  Gave them all the information, blah blah blah and, “Ok, we’ll get that right out.” Or, “I’ll fax that off to ‘em right now.”  And nothing.  In fact it was made extremely clear that the results had to be faxed to the surgeon’s office in Fresno.  They even bothered to make a copy of this request for their records.

Salinas Valley Imaging Center is notorious for communication breakdown.  You have to ask everyone you meet from the doctor to the janitor, to please send the results to my physician, and in most cases that still doesn’t work.  

So what the hell am I supposed to do?  The office gal in Fresno told me to just keep trying and tell ‘em it’s important.  Well I’ve been doing that and I’m a lil tired of trying; this approach is clearly not working.  Then I thought of a plan and wrote down my lil spiel so I wouldn’t falter halfway into the conversation.

Here’s what I said:

Hi there!  My name is Erica and I work for the Advanced Bariatric Center over in Fresno for Dr. Felix and Dr. Swartz.  One of our patients Elizabeth Brooke Lee had an Upper GI performed on December the 6th at your office, and it’s imperative we receive those results so that Dr. Swartz may determine what options are best for her and that the patient can continue in her quest for surgery. 

Our fax number is area code 559-446-6288  and that’s attention to Erica.

Not ten minutes later Erica called me to say they just faxed the results over.  I was rather proud of myself.

This is a question that’s always lurking in the shadows, and sticking its tongue out on occasion.  It’s kinda caused me to have doubts as to whether I’m really committed to this surgery, or am just wasting everyone's time and money.  I was committed during my first surgery, but after the stricture and an incredibly disappointing loss of only 14 pounds my first month; I just said screw it.

But this is why God invented Mothers.  Mother reminded me that during my previous weight loss, I exercised all the time – at least three hours a day!  I would run up and down the stairs, we had a weight set and not to mention a 4000 sq ft house at the time that I always kept immaculate.  I was like a football player or Olympic athlete and still only ate 1200 calories a day.

I believe my blood tests more than prove that I’m absorbing much more than your normal bypass patient.  Vitamin b12 can only be absorbed in either the duodenum or the jejunum (I can’t remember) and of course under the tongue.  If I’ve taken this supplement a dozen times since surgery I’d be surprised, and yet all my blood tests show my B12 is in perfect range.  If that’s not evidence, then I dunno what is

Ah yes, the truth comes out; comparing my weight loss to Mother’s success, Russ said that I wasn’t even trying.  I asked, “What do you think I’ve been doing for these past few months and checking out my revision options.”  He said that didn’t count and that I was just looking for a magic wand.

Oh, I see. 

He then goes on about gal we meet who had a hernia problem after my first month appointment where I lost an astonishing 14 pounds, and that I just need to work on it like she did.  Well if he’d been paying attention:  The past few months I was actually losing weight I rarely ate and when I did, I threw it up, however I did have the courtesy to turn on the fan and sink so’s ya wouldn’t have to hear me hacking up in the bathroom all the time.

This type of opinion is fine coming from a stranger but someone you love is really a low blow.

These are the photos from some of the previous endoscopies just to give you an idea of what a stricture and ulcer look like.

This would be my first stricture; you can read about in detail here.

10/7/2003: About four weeks after my surgery and my stoma had closed to the size of a pinhole. The doctor had trouble getting the scope inside because it was so small.	Because the stricture was so severe and I was only four weeks out of surgery, the doctor was very cautious and only dilated my stoma partly for fear of damaging the still fragile tissue.

Second stricture you can read about here.

10/22/03: This second stricture was inevitable since the first could only be partially dilated.	This time around he was able to dilate the stoma to about the normal width.

Finally we have the fun filled Christmas stricture adventure you can read all about here.

12/28/03: This was a naughty lil stricture that developed slowly.	Ya see that big nasty white guy? That's an ulcer that most likely helped in the process of producing a stricture.
And once again here's a happy and dilated stoma.

I had blood tests taken to check every function and level possible; since they never called back I assume it all came out normal.

Still running a fever; if there was a kidney or bladder infection I think it’s gone now although I’m nauseous quite often.  Still, since the blood tests were normal I seriously doubt this has anything to do with the surgery.  After all, it was over two years ago, it doesn’t make any sense something could possibly go wrong now.  

For someone whose normal temperature ranged between 96.5 – 97.0 (I am one cold blooded witch), to now be running a nearly hundred degree temperature for the last week certainly can’t mean shiny happy things.

One week ago something extraordinary happened: I lost complete interest in food; everything made me nauseous.  Honest to God Cheetos remained in the pantry forlorn and forgotten.

I must admit I’m a lil more than disgusted at the folks whose hand I held through the frightening beginnings of their surgery only to be followed by, “Brooke who?”

I could pursue the reasoning behind my recent peculiar symptoms or just ignore the hell outta ‘em and play the guessing game.  Guessing game is more fun, plus doesn’t include anymore annoying tests or yards of tubing down my esophagus – me and my wide awake esophagus.

Epilogue:

Well the truth is I’m a failure.  When I sat there listening to Dr. Felix at the seminar and he said a percentage of folks sitting in here tonight will fail, I knew I would be one of ‘em.  I know it’s noone’s fault but my own, however I do believe that in the first six months this surgery failed me.  Thanks to the innumerable strictures and ulcers I basically starved to death those first six months; anything I could eat I would eventually throw up.  And it doesn’t quite seem fair that Mother being only 2 ½ months out, breaks nearly every rule, never exercises and yet has lost over 60 pounds.

But… that’s how it goes.

The idea was that this surgery worked for you those first six months.  Christ, no matter what ya do ya really can’t eat much of  anything so logically the weight would come of.  Logically.  I’ve studied every other case I could possibly get my hands on and came to the conclusion that my only losing 14 pounds in my first month was absurd.  Just considering my mass alone and lack of caloric intake, logically I should have lost more.  Logically the average loss is double for my weight and stature at the time.  So what a pisser to be so completely illogical.

By now it’s far too late for me.  Yes we could go have a string of tests run so perhaps I could have card carrying proof of why I’m a fat bitch, but honestly I just don’t care to or just don’t care period.

So it turns out I have a lot of problems, one of them being I’m no longer 430 pounds.  I can no longer use that extra cushion of comfort as an excuse for not participating in life. 

Now I’m really screwed; 27 years old and never truly been released out into the wild.  I always assumed it was for society’s protection.  It’s been a damn easy life style hanging on my parents’ coattails all these years.  I could keep this up, but it only seems fair to test other waters before I settle.

I’m terrified of failure and even more petrified of success.  Change and the unknown are hard and continually burying your head in the sand sounds much for favorable; but what’s the worst possible thing that could happen?  And more importantly why does it matter? 

My therapist asked me today, “What do you think life would be like if you could live without fear?  Can you imagine it?”

“My God,” I replied, “It’d be wonderful and I’d feel so sorry for everyone else in the world.”  And that’s the answer to the question, isn’t it?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my recent hobby (reading books about ancient history) is that since the dawn of mankind we’ve been fucked.  People in the past managed cataclysmic errors in their lives just as we’ve done today and will most assuredly keep up the habit in the future. Noone was ever even remotely perfect and in the end, everyone became a bastard.

Someone gave a link to a realistic goal weight website.  Now if I enter my current weight of 285 I get a realistic goal weight of 179, and if I enter my starting weight of 430 I get a realistic goal weight of 231; compared to 130 both are purty damn attainable.  According to a medical chart I should weigh within 104-134.  104?  Perhaps if this planet’s gravitational pull wasn’t so prominent then yes there might be a chance for 104, but as it is, we don’t live on the moon.

Honestly, let me get to 200 and I’ll tell ya what I feel like then.

So, I tattled on Mother.  The idea of blood clots was really weighing on me, and I also had the suspicion that I sounded like Chicken Little.  So while in the doctor’s office I voiced my concerns.  Mother tried to play this down with a, “But I’ve never had any problem with blood clots.”  I hollered back, “I don’t care!”  The doctor wheeled her lil stool over to Mom and mimicked my reply, “I don’t care!”  Then I pointed at Mom and said, “See? See?”  Our doctor said abdominal surgery is very high risk for blood clots, doesn’t matter who the hell ya are.  So she suggested Mom do the knee surgery first.

Unfortunately this means Mother has to cancel her surgery once again.  She’s purty bummed and feels like she’ll be fat forever.

The other day at my therapist’s office we were tryin to figure out whether it was safe enough for me to sit down on her chaise.  It’s wicker, so I was worried.  So she says, “Well I’m about 240 pounds,” and commences to bounce on it.  Right away the chaise starts to show strain.  

ME: Well that’s not a good sign.

THERAPIST: Well to be fair, the only weight this can support is a very small ten year old.

ME: So what if I break it?        

THERAPIST: Pffft!  I was gonna get rid of it anyway.

So now that I’ve found a more supportive area of this chaise lounge I ask her, “So you’re my therapist, you of all people should know this; Am I evil?”

“Of all the people I’ve met in this lifetime I must say you’re least evil person I’ve ever known.”

Even before I asked this next question I knew the answer.  “Yeah but how many people have ya met?”

“A lot.  Believe me dear, a lot.”

After all, this gal traveled the world when she was a kid and was a nurse in the Vietnam War.  So yeah, it’s safe to say she’s met her fair share of folks and possibly has a good definition of what evil is.  It was nice to hear that I wasn’t one of ‘em.

It's bad enough I have the whole fat obstacle, but I'm also plagued with intelligence and general "weirdness".

Yes there ...   more »

I made a critical error last night by looking at myself in the mirror while nude.  The thrill of Coldwater Creek clothes quickly faded away when I saw my thighs.  As I’m pear shaped I tend to carry most of my weight in my hips and thighs, and although the tape measure says differently I feel they haven’t shrunk an inch.  They’re all very cottage cheese like now and just hideously ugly – I don’t recall them ever being this upsetting before in my life.  It looks as though I have elephantitis, some folds hang halfway past my calves.  I also have battled with boils on my inner thighs for as long as I can remember.  They’re riddled with deep pitted scars and the skin looks grey and almost dead.  

People have been asking for new pictures but frankly I’m embarrassed as I personally see no difference between now me and April me, even though my clothes are smaller.

140 pounds is a great loss, but I’m getting a little worried.  Maybe I screwed up in the first year and didn’t do as much as I should, but I was sick a lot and really didn’t feel comfortable exercising rigorously until around 350.  Now I ride 20 miles a day on my stationary bike and do weight training for my upper body one day and lower half the next.  I know that sounds like over doing it, but my bike includes programs with warm ups and cool downs so I’m not keeling over after each ride (I do two 10 miles a day).  At 400 pounds I had trouble reaching just 2 miles a day.

I eat around 1000 – 1200 calories a day.  No, I don’t count.  I’ve been counting calories since childhood – 10 years old and going through Weight Watcher programs.  My counting days are over.  Besides, my dinner tonight was a Boston Market chicken leg, couple spoon fulls of mashed potatoes, corn and broccoli. Then later on a couple cups of popcorn. Does that sound like a lot to you?

But I’m freaked because after all this effort, nothing seems to be happening.  And I’m wondering: Did I fuck up?  Should I not have been cavalier about exercise the first year?  I am annoying like that.

I’m gonna do a test.  I’m either going to take a hammer to my scales or put ‘em out in the shed cuz I never go out there – boogers could be out there.  I’ll stay the hell away from ‘em for a month and keep up with my routine.  I keep a daily journal of my bike miles and should be able to do a nice comparison.  Then after all that work if the scale and tape measure don’t show any slight improvement, I’m gonna start wiggin.

Before, I said that I could be happy at the weight I am now, even though I’m still considered super obese, but after seein my thighs last night it truly bummed me out.  I lost 140 pounds and look like this, and if I can’t lose anymore I’ll have to live the rest of my life looking half-baked.

I wonder if I should have my metabolic rate checked.  I just don’t get how I could ride 70 miles this week and gain 2 pounds.  I know, I know…  Water weight and muscle weighs more, but I’m skeert.

It’s way too early for me to have plastic surgery.  When I got down to 200 pounds my thighs were still massive.  Right now my bottom can fit into 28 pants, but my thighs are always stretched to capacity -- while I can get away with a 24 top.  I know its vanity, but I’m afraid I’ll be stuck with these grotesque trunks for the rest of my life.

My butt hurts.

I can ride 10 miles on my stationary bike in one setting.  You'd think that with all ...   more »

I tweaked the letter and sent it last night, but for all the good it will do.  It’s a safe ...   more »

As most of you are aware, the NY Post printed one helluva nasty review about MTV's True Life Obesity episode ...   more »

As I write this I’m currently downing an Oreo McFlurry.  I don’t feel guilty rather I wonder about my underlying current of self-destructiveness.

I am smackdown tired of being told what I can and cannot eat.  Yes I make poor choices.  Piss poor choices even, but isn’t this what free will is all about?

When I was a little gurl I recall the Swann’s man deliveries.  Does anyone remember the Swann’s man and fond memories of his frozen delights?  Well perhaps my palette has changed with time, but at 12 I was sure there was no finer cuisine than their single serve deep dish pizzas or chicken cordon bleu.  And lest we forget, being “single size” and all, I always felt the need to consume two of everything to feel properly satiated. 

My Grandparents were living with us at the time.  I was walking back from the freezer after grabbing two single serve ice cream cups with lil fudgey ripples.  As I walked past my Grandparents asked if I was going to eat both of those and I replied, “Well sure I am.”  My Grandpa came up behind me with tears in his eyes and took one of the cups away from me.  I stared at my Grandfather crying and thought sure I must be the worst person in the world because I was going to eat two ice creams.

Later, when I became a lil older and wiser, I realized I was not an evil and deplorable human being because I liked to eat.  But I did wonder, “What age must I reach when people stop telling me what I can and cannot eat?  Surely once I hit 18 people will stop asking me, “Are you really going to eat that?”

As you can imagine I hit the ripe age of 18 with crushing disappointment, then 21, 25, etc.  It never stops.

Since this surgery I’ve felt like that awkward lil gurl who is constantly scolded about her eating habits, and made to believe she’s one helluva horrid human being.

After sheer annoyance with the world in general, I felt the need for a Fosters run.  No, they don’t have anything remotely low carb -- I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a sundae.  I was able to eat 1/3 of the cheeseburger and devoured that sundae.  It was wonderful.

This afternoon I broke.  After searching the kitchen for something to eat and only finding limp lunch meat and bland chicken strips, I snapped.  Why can’t I eat real fucking food like I used to?  Christ!  I bet I’ve forgotten how to cook! 

Screw the goddamn annoying rules!  I want ravioli!

I waddled out to the freezer and proceed to peruse through the items.  I did everything but climb inside, and came out with ravioli, tortellini, etc.  Found some sausage that would soon be departing from us and chucked it into the sauce.  So thrilled was I over the anticipation of eating actual real live ravioli, that I thrust my hands into the volcanic pasta pot just to nab one. I bit into the buttery shitake mushroom ravioli and my God was it ever worth the searing pain.

I didn’t even bother to wait for the pasta to finish before I dragged it off the burner and helped myself to its bounty.  I piled my lil pasta bowl to the brim and dug in.  Infact I’m not even sure if I bothered to breathe in between bites or if in between bites even existed.

Later I tootled up to McDonald’s for an Oreo McFlurry.

I wonder if I’m going to be one of those failures of surgery.  Although I haven’t gained any weight, and am still losing somehow.

However, instead of finishing that McFlurry off, I set it aside.  That’s one small step for Brookekind.

Those infamous words were uttered by my very own Mother yesterday – clearly these two phrases should not be in the same sentence.

She arrived home late and upon entering the house she announced that the windshield was broke, the very same windshield of our beloved SUV.  So of course I replied with a, “Huh?”

MOTHER: The windshield’s busted that’s why I was late.  I think I was shot at and I bought you a new mop.

This is an interesting sentence to process, but indeed she was holding a new mop.

ME: Fuck the mop!  What do you mean you were shot at?

Well it turns out while she was driving down past Fort Ord something did indeed shoot through the air and cracked the windshield.  The hole is purty small and didn’t penetrate through the glass, but it was on her side and right smack dab where her head was located.  She pulled over and called Onstar, described the situation and they sent someone out there.  Tow truck guy thought it was probably a rock, but OnStar said they were gonna dispatch the highway patrol over to that area.  After all, just over in Salinas people are gettin shot in broad daylight.

So for the sake of validity, it probably wasn’t someone shooting at her, however it’s a heck of a lotta fun to leave the following on someone’s voice mail, “Mother was shot at and I got a new mop.”  And from now on when ever Mother’s being particularly annoying I can say, “You better stop it or I’ll shoot ya.”

Now for the less than fun news:

Yesterday I started the day off by eating a plum, as is my normal daily routine.  While I never felt ill it did take three hours for this lil plum to final pass through my pouch.   Hmmm…  Later on I discovered I could only eat a fraction of the same food I had no trouble with just a few days ago.  Hmmm…

But the true fun came today.  Trader Joe’s sells the most superb reduced carb waffles.  I honestly cannot tell the difference between these and regular waffles.  Walden Farms makes the most amazing CALORIE FREE (yes you heard me right) pancake syrup.  I don’t recommend it for you maple syrup fans out there – I was never a maple syrup fan myself and always gravitated towards that Aunt Jemina crap.  To me, this syrup taste almost exactly like Aunt Jemina.  So with a lil peanut butter on top, this is one helluva low carb experience.  

And so here I am enjoying my waffles, however just a few bites in and I already begin to feel pressure.  I sit back for a few minutes and wait for this to subside, seeing as how just a week ago I was able to eat this amount with no trouble.  The pressure never left and got worse.  An hour later I was headed towards the bathroom and reaching for the infamous puking cup.  Normally after one good hurl you feel better, but I didn’t and not 15 minutes I was back urpin up again.  

I’m sitting there on the toilet, puking cup in hand and practically ripping the toilet paper holder off the wall because the pressure is almost unbearable.  I cough, hack and gag; all the while the strain is causing capillaries on my face to break.  With my eyes bloodshot and watering I violently heave and up come my leftover waffles, missing the cup and splattering the floor and wall.  I giggle manically and yell, “Yeah!  Rock and roll!”  Then I put my head in hands and sigh, “I’m not having a good time.”

I go through the same process a third time and ask, “Are we there yet?”  By now it’s eight o’clock, fours hours since I ate the damn waffles.  I try sipping on some Pedialyte, but after only a couple sips it looks as though I’m gonna have to run back to the bathroom again.  So in a desperate last attempt I made myself some hot tea – a couple sips and I decide it might be a good idea to hang out in the bathroom just incase.  In the end everything finally went down.  But good grief!  Vomit three times and it still hurts, even though I only took a few bites.  Not to mention it took four bloody hours.  Clearly something’s not right so I will be calling the surgeon tomorrow.

I’m not looking forward to possibly having a tube down my throat for a month, but the main thing that’s pissin me off is that I won’t be able to eat the Peanut Chicken I’ll be fixing for the Church’s potluck this weekend.