A&E = Acid & Excrement, In My Case.

So lots of fun things have been happening this last week.

Spent an ultimate LOL night at the hospital thanks to this acid reflux business that now seems ever present in my day to day life.

Normally an attack will last approximately 20 minutes. I pace around, guzzle Lansoprazole with Gaviscon and maybe stew in a hot bath for an hour or so whilst my muscles start to relax.

NORMALLY.

This time was a right hoot, 4 solid hours of torment. Pure agony. Now, I pride myself on having a pretty solid pain threshold. I once fell out of a shower cubicle and broke my leg before managing to get a flight from Switzerland dragging my club foot along for the ride. IM SO HARD.

But this, this was bull shit man. I tried to walk the pain off and almost fainted outside my flat before vomiting multiples times. And yes, Gaviscon does taste worse coming up than it does going down.

In A&E I was pushed through quite quickly which confirmed my initial thoughts, I was about to die.

FAREWELL CRUEL WORLD.

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I had bloods taken, piss samples taken, pooh samples taken, abdominal x-rays, chest x-rays and an ECG for good measure.

I spent the foreseeable on a drip of meds to dull the pain and keep me alive. Slight Exaggeration.

After being told, in layman’s terms that there is not set cure, only prevention I am now banned from Caffeine and a multitude of other lifelong fave’s to keep the acid at bay.

Does this technique of cutting out every bit of happiness from my life work? Not always.

A cracker sent me to hell and back the other day. A fucking lowlife cracker.

Aside from that fresh hell I’m 2 lbs off a 7 Stone weight loss. I’m happy with that. Dead happy.

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I’m happy my skin is not dripping off like water. Happy my tits don’t touch my legs when I sit down. Happy I’m not bald. Happy I’m healthier. Happy I’m not dead via internal Acid Gang warfare.

Things could be worse.

I’ve bought my first 10kg Kettlebell this week and I feel like I potentially could be in the next series of Gladiators and of course after much deliberation I have decided my gladiator name would be…. Lathargica.

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Maybe that’s because it’s Monday and I’m tired but it’d a fo’sho front runner so thus far.

Laters. x

Happiest Fatty in Homerton… STILL (Tough Crowd)

I had my 2nd group session of post fatty chat at the hospital yesterday.

You remember the first session where I seemed to be the only one not crying into my protein shake about how I was now unable to chow down on a family sized chocolate bar, it was embarrassing man.

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This one was slightly better, less tears.

It was amazing to see these people 3 months down the line. They all looked, well, smaller. I now understand people’s reactions when they see me for the first time since the operation as i have always assumed It’s just polite to tell someone they look like they’ve lost weight after they’ve had an operation to cut their belly off. And as I don’t see the results in myself it was reassuring to see them in others.

We went around the group and each spoke briefly about our new eating habits.

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So Sandra, how’re you getting on’… Sandra looks up from her Turkey slices wrapped in cling film now sweating in her clammy grip.

Well, the thing is I’m still really struggling to eat full meals. I still get very upset at dinner time when him indoors and the kids sit down to a roast and I’m left there watching and well, it just really gets to me’

Everyone nodded in agreement. How dare those bastards sit and eat their tea in front of us well we sit here like a shaking shitting Donkey from an NSPCC advert?

I watched from the back left hand corner of the room trying not to laugh and shout at them all. ‘BUT YOU’RE NOT STARVING ARE YOU, SANDRA. YOU CAN EAT. YOU COULD EAT WITH THEM YOU SILLY COW BUT YOU JUST LOVE MOANING DON’T YOU. YOU FUCKIN GREMLIN’

Look, I fuckin get it man. It’s hard at times. Can be frustrating. But come on, get a grip. If I can sit and eat a roast with my friends and family why can’t they?

Yes, my roast is minuscule in comparison to the others but who cares, it tastes ace and is great protein if you make a few adjustments. A little bit of chicken, a sprout and maybe a tater if I’m feeling fruity. I can enjoy that just as much as you can scran your roast like a bossman. What’s the beef?. mmmmmmm BEEF.

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It just felt to me like I was hearing a lot of excuses. Whinging for no real reason. Only me and 2 others had even started going to the gym yet. The other 7 still didn’t feel ready, was too tired.

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I’m over these people man. These are the one’s that will be blending up Mars Bars and chugging them down convincing themselves it’s a treat day every other day and end up having another surgery 4 years down the line. What a fuckin shame.

MOVING ON

I went on to have my own personal one on one with my dietitian. I’ve lost 56% of my excess body weight so far. Sounds good yeah?

But it did get me thinking. If I’ve lost 56% of my EXCESS body weight and still have another 44%, what the fuck do they class my target weight as?

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I’m 5’9 and 33 years old and looking forward to be a happy healthy 11 / 12 stone. By their math it looks like I’ll have to be about 2 stone before I’m no longer classed as overweight. Liberty bro. Pure. Liberty.

So, what to do about this. The plan of action is keep my own personal target in mind. When i reach that target, reevaluate the situation. If I look like road kill and my skin is blowing in the wind behind me, i’ll know it;s time to stop.

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I AM ALEX MACK.

Since the 21st April 2017 I have now lost 82.6lbs and I look like a deflating water balloon.

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That’s fine. FINE. But like, when this belly of joy finally fuck off? ‘It’s been 3 months HAVE PATIENCE LILLI’. No. I shall not.

I’m morphing into a modern day Alex Mack. SOS.

Too dramatic?

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I’ve decided to eat no more, no less than 800 calories a day for the rest of my life. Is this achievable?

I fear not as I cast my eyes down to my turmeric stained fingers from fishing out a piece of Chicken from Leigh’s curry last night after a bottle of wine. Oops.

Don’t judge me, it was Thursday. And everyone knows that Thursday is the new Friday. AND I’m not going to drink tonight AND I’m already over explaining myself through the guilt of LOVING BOOZE SO MUCH.

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I have so much guilt over drinking booze again 3 months down the line. I imagine my fat little liver bathing in a swamp of Pinot Grigio wearing a skin tight Tankini like a fat kid by the poolside in Benidorm covered in Ice Cream.

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Oh liver, what doth become of me?

I tried to redeem myself this morning by wearing my tropical swimming cozzie under my work threads. How can I not go to the gym / swim straight from work if I’m already dressed for the occasion. FOOL PROOF G.

Little do my work colleagues know (who think I’m super dedicated to the gym)  that I’m only wearing this flamboyant M&S cozzie to work because it was easier than finding knickers and a bra this morning amidst my white wine hangover daze.

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On the subject of brazier’s I’ve road tested out my new Shock Absorber Gym Bra thing and FUCK IN HELL its pure magic man.

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Like, my tits are almost protruding out of my back it straps them in so hard. Brilliant.

It’s amazing how much more energy I have to focus on exercise when I’m not contending with the ‘Mitchell Brothers’ scrapping away in my bap hammock.

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I’ve never experienced life with small breasts before. Not since I was like, 3.

Anyone with big boobs will agree that the minute you whip your bra off after a long day you can’t help but stand, belly out, head back jiggling your boobs in your hands for a good 5 minutes before you acknowledge how weird the situation has become and you put a T Shirt on before the neighbours in the flat facing call the police.

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So strapping them down to make life somewhat easier has become a real treat. I feel like this is the female version of ‘tucking’

I shall just leave you with this mental image. You’re welks yo.

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Gluten Is The Putin Of The Food World

The course of true love doth never run smoothly.

You know what else doesn’t run smoothly? Cutting your belly off and expecting zero repercussions.

I was informed several times that Post Op it was very common to gain intolerance to certain foods / ingredients that had previously never been an issue.

Did I listen, NO. Why would I?

After all. I AM BEOWOLF.

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That, or just really great at recovering from mega surgery. Like, things have been going swell so far bar the hair falling out sitchu. Lezzbeonest even that is having zero effect on my daily morale at present.

But then this mother fucker pipes up. GLUTEN.

I’ve always been of the mind-set that Gluten Intolerance is just a state of mind. A ‘Niche’, ‘Fad’ and a money making scheme to overcharge the public for really shit bread.

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Alas for the first time in my entire life I fear that I may actually be wrong.

I know, I KNOW. I couldn’t believe it either but hey I’m big enough to admit it. It happens to the best of us. I’ve gone 33 years without being wrong once. My time was well overdue.

GLUTAN IS THINE ENEMY.

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But this is all very confusing man, so out of the blue. Has this happened to anyone else post op? nearly 3 months post op?

I was absolutely fine up until 10 days ago. I ate a thumb sized piece of this warm, delicious Turkish bread. It was taunting me. I needed to swallow it.

1 hour later the pain that tore through me was unreal. Through my stomach up into my shoulders and back. My muscles were tight and I couldn’t take in deep breaths properly until the pain subsided exactly 8 minutes later.

A few days later I ate one singular piece of Gnocchi. 1 teeny tiny bite of pleasure. AGONY ENSUED.

This time I recognised the paid immediately and counted down the 8 minutes as I paced the hall way looking like The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

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Everything hurts after these ‘attacks’. It leaves my ribs tender and my body very achy. GRIM.

A tidal wave of agony is how I described this to the dietitian and I was NOT being dramatic.

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They didn’t seem too overly concerned with my situation. I should have taken a bite of that butty she was keeping for her dinner (lunch) and locked her in the room with me for an hour until the symptoms kicked in and THEN she would admit me to ICU no doubt. Probably. Maybe.

On Monday I decided to make Leigh a treat for his dinner (tea). Not having a mega appetite myself I forget that he’s probably being slowly malnourished as close to all carbs have been removed from his diet and he now lives off lettuce wraps and omelettes.

I knew it was bad when he woke me up the other night ordering Steak in his sleep. I knew it was time to feed the beast.

I made him one of his favourites. Roasted Chicken & Stuffin’ Butties. He was delighted.

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The Stuffin tempted me. I had a mouthful. Once again, I was to pay the price. This time Leigh was there to witness my agony. He wasn’t empathetic, this is Leigh were talking about.

He told me to have a pooh. I AM FOREVER CONSTIPATED. Of course I have considered having a pooh. It’s all I fuckin think about. SHIT. LITERAL SHIT.

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So why has this appeared out of the blue? I’ve tried Gnocchi since my op and was fine, no reaction. Why now?

I tried a small piece of bread dipped in olive oil and balsamic previously, no reaction. Why now?

Last night I ate a few Skips, my favourite all time Crisp and the pain taunted me but didn’t go the full kit and caboodle so I can only assume whatever demon is out to get me was only a trace this time.

Has this happened to you? What do I do? Do I have to admit defeat? Admit this is a problem, a real problem? Admit that I AM GLUTEN INTOLERANT.

Fuck my life bro, what next I ask you? You’ll be telling me next that Vegans are real people too.

On that subject. Why don’t Vegetarians eat animals that have died of natural causes? Like, old age? Surly they’d want that?

PS. 77lbs down. YAS

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow. Fuck’sake

It happened. The inevitable.

Lathering up my hair in the shower this morning I felt my fingers tangle as I massaged my succulent swede.

Inspecting my soapy paws I could clearly see the hair, my hair, wrapped around my fingers like fucking Zoodles.

I was expecting it, I literally wrote about it only last week but there is a whole world of difference between preempting and reality. Now, it’s a reality. The bald Eagle hath taken flight.

I dried my hair delicately hoping my follicles wouldn’t noticed and would stay put embedded in my crown. That’s not how it works, I know. But FUCK man. Urgh

I’m not going to harp on about it today, NO. Its inevitable right? Another day on another week I’ll not be so blazay about the grim situation but today, well, who the fuck gives a shit. Queue Beyoncé – Independent Woman. QUESTION…

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I’ve got bigger fish to fry today, more pressing matters about this whole weight loss malarkey like at what point can I buy new tits?

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Legit question. It’s not that I need them RIGHT NOW but i’d kinda like to know the score as to when new tits will be required.

For instance, if one was to purchase a new rack in lets say, 2 months that being only 5 months post op, would one’s brand new Babylons get totally mash up in the pilgrimage to a lighter life?

Am I getting ahead of myself? I’ve never been one for patience, the long game. I want everything done yesterday and I kinda feel like if my hair is going to fall out then I should at least eradicate the worry of shit tits but maybe I’m being ridiculous. It wouldn’t be the first time.

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Failing buying new boobs prematurely how about exercise? I’m sure there has to be some legit work out maneuvers out there especially designed to turn your udders into rock hard buns of steel?

So far my gym efforts leave me more of a puddled mess as opposed to a stone goddess of mega tits. Woe is fucking me bro.

SEND HELP!

 

Welcome, The Lost Member Of Right Said Fred. Weep.

I’m almost 10 weeks post op now and the countdown has majorly started for the ‘3 month cycle’ balding extravaganza.Vertical-Sleeve-Gastrectomy-Seattle-Weight-Loss

Losing my hair was the one part of this whole process that caused me any self-doubt. Who the fuck would chose to do this knowing their hair would fall out?

I’ve tried not to focus on the hair loss, keep it at the back on my mind, pretend it’s not happening but alas I have 2 weeks to go and as much as I’d love to believe this won’t happen to me, why should I be any different, right?

Your body works on a 3 month cycle so when starved of nutrients, protein, vitamins and the likes your body will usually take 3 months to really recognise this form of malnutrition and REACT.

Pretty fucking cruel in my opinion that it chooses to react by making your hair thin / fall out. This is pure agony man.

Every day I wash my hair and inspect the damage. Nothing so far. I know this won’t last.

I’ve stopped bleaching, dying it every other day. Stopped using GHD’s. Stopped DIY’in at home.

I keep googling ‘fat bald women’ just to gear myself up for the worst case scenario.

I’m my mind I can envisage a Chubby Demi More circa GI Jane days but in reality I know it will be more like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall when he is dressed as a bird trying to get to Mars. Too fuckin glam.

 

Like, why can’t the nutrition God be like ‘Yo, let the dick head keep her hair and just take her pubes’

I’ll give up my pubes to keep my weave, I’m not precious about this. Take my leg hair man, take my fuckin eyebrows. But my hair? Ratty beatz that’s cold man.

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I’m frantically trying to eat as well as possible to trick my body into not noticing the lack of shit entering my mouth box. I’m nailing through 20g Protein Quark Yogurts which let me tell you really takes it’s toll as it has the texture of cement with a consistent taste of sour, gone off milk.

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I’m one step away from nailing a pint of raw eggs like my spirit animal, Rocky. which I would probably try if I knew my belly was big enough to handle one whole egg but I can imagine the aftermath of this experiment would be more like The Exorcist as opposed to THE PEOPLE’S PROTEIN CHAMPION. One can but dream yo.

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So I suppose the only thing I can do at this stage is not stress, right? If i worry about this phase too hard no doubt i’ll trigger some kind of stress induced alopecia and turn into a full time Gail Porter. No one needs that.

It’s only 3 months. That’s nothing, right? I have enough head scarfs to see me through this shit storm. I can take this on the chin for the sake of a healthier future.

I say this now. Whilst sound of mind. Wait until I like this mangy dog and then see how fucking buzzing I am. Can’t wait bro 😦

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Witness The Poor Fitness. One Hope One Quest.

I went running this week. Me. Yes. I.Went.Running

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I’d like to say this has become a standard part of my daily routine but NO.

3 reasons why:-

1 – I can’t run. It’s hard. It’s so tiring. I’m so unfit. I’ll die. I’m dead.

2- My tits are too big. Sports Bras are NEVER to be underestimated. I have a new found respect or every woman, ANY woman who can run and not die. I’ve done my research and will now purchase the most supportive straight jacket’esk Shock Absorber Sports Bra that has ever existed.

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3 – I bought the wrong size running pants. This seems like a silly thing to do, right? See, I’ve always sized up my entire life, bought a bigger size to ensure I’m not bulging out or busting at the seams. I need to stop doing this. Get measured. Mentally accept that I can and need to wear smaller sizes because that’s what my body is now, smaller. It’s hard to get my head round. Do you know what happens when you run with pants that are too big? They fall down. A lot.

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Picture a first time runner in the blistering heat with her tits flying around her head and pants round her knees. That was me. It was not cool.

Aside from that I did actually enjoy it. I could feel the burn. Literally. My thighs were fucked for 3 days later. I see runners now along the canal and give them the secret nod. You know the nod? It’s what we pro runners give each other to be like ‘Yo, cool run bro’

They still don’t seem to give me the nod back yet though. Maybe it takes more than 5 x 1 minute stints? Hmmmm.

Now as we will all be aware this week has been hotter than the fiery pits of hell. Hotter than Tom Hardy smothered in Foie Gras with an Apricot Jus and a pinch of black pepper. Jesus man I’m salivating.

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I usually hate summer. I still kind of do but for very different reasons this year.

I live in London and have to travel from East to West on the Central Line twice a day so my life is always going to be somewhat Les Miserables until the day I win the lottery and that shit commute can bounce.

The Central Line for those that don’t know is the most intense form of social torture one person can endure so you can imagine there’s a lot of sweat knocking about. A lot of body odour. A lot of, how shall we say, scent. Vile

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I also partake in this sweating shindig. Its 154862545932 degrees. Why would I not? But I do feel a certain change in my sweat patterns. I get hot, I chill and I cool down. This sounds like a standard format for sweating I know. But this is new to me.

I used to sweat, get worked up about being the hottest person alive, panic everyone would notice I was the hottest person alive, get hotter, then hotter, then die, never stop sweating, lose my breath, have an asthma attack then eventually cool down.

As of today I have lost 4st and 10lbs. That has made a HUGE difference to the smallest of things. Health was always my main objective and it’s reassures me every day of my decision when little things like that make a difference.

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The Running Man part deux will take place with week. Pray for Lilli B yo.