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.

Chins Up, It’s All Gravy Baby

3 major things have happened this week.

1 – I’ve shrunken into AND grown out of one of my ‘thinspiration’ skirts in what seems like the space of a week.

2 – I’ve lost another stone + 1 extra lb since my last weigh in on the 12th of May.

3 – I only went and joined the fuckin gym. YAS KWEEN.

All of the above are of course wonderfully ace and I am elated to be seeing such results but by the end of this month I will literally be dressing in bin bags unless I stock up rapid on threads as most of my clothes are edging from ‘casually oversized ‘ to straight up 90’s Hip Hop vibes. A look I’m confident I cannot pull off.

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I’ve set up somewhat of a rotator system. Buy clothes – wear 3 weeks – sell clothes – buy new clothes. This is working well man. I can’t replenish my whole wardrobe when weeks after purchasing I look like a deflated Sea Urchin from The Little Mermaid in my new garms. Fuck that bro.

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The gym has been an unexpected delight to me. I’ve always asserted myself as a firm believer in the bold statement ‘ALL GYM’RATS ARE TWATS’ but that’s not the case. I feared the scathing looks of ‘what is SHE doing in here’, the snarky comments of… I have no idea what I even thought these ‘Gym Rat’s’ would say. I just knew I detested the place and all it’s members would no doubt be wankers.

Me, generalise, noooo. Urgh. I’m a twat.

I am a total convert. I fuckin love that fact the gym, well, my gym is such an eclectic mix of fat old women, chubby new mums, ripped to fuck Stedhead’s with bodies like bubble wrap. I’m learning to buzz hard off them all.

I’ve even started taking Gym Classes. Okay, I joined 1. And the instructor didn’t actually turn up. But fuck it, I joined, right?

As I lose weight and gain confidence I’m realising the confidence is nothing to do with the size or shape of my body. Without getting all deep in yo’ass (that’s a saying, right?) I now know the confidence comes from within. I know, I know… ‘Shut the fuck up Lilli’ but seriously man, its confidence in yourself that you can actually do this. You’re not unfixable. You can do 3 more minutes on that fuckin treadmill.

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As for losing the weight, my once super tight muscular calves are now soft and podgy like high quality goose down pillows. My fat butcher’s arms and now flabby butcher’s arms and my boobs have definitely started to shrink. Leigh is monitoring them on the regular and is not shy of telling me I will soon have ‘Nana Tits’. I tell him I don’t mind this. I can buy new ones. HUZZAR. Lilli 1 – Leigh 0

 

Desperately Seeking Stella

I tried booze for the first time in 7.2 weeks.

I had no intention of doing so until my dietitian session last week, turns out everyone in my post fatty crew admitted to having a few ‘cheeky’ bevvies on week 2.

I was straight edge man. And it felt so very dark.

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That night I sent Leigh to the shop to get me a sick bottle of Riesling as I’d been craving this since our Berlin jaunt earlier this year.

Guess what he came back with?

Blue Fuckin Nun. Okay so yes, technically this is a Riesling, technically. But the last time I drank Blue Nun was at G ’Nan’s kitchen table with Sunday Dinner with I was 12.

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God bless G’Nan for always keeping my glassed topped up even as a nipper.

Old school as fuck man.

It tasted decent though, just the mental recognition I was drinking booze was enough to settle my misery. I had approximately 5 sips of this shit before my face flushed red like the colour of Mars. Was I pissed? Was I having a reaction? Was I due on?

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I went back to my water. My safe place.

Leigh’s family were visiting this weekend so to join in the famalam camaraderie I decided to treat myself to a plush bottle of plonk from good ole’ Marks & Sparks.

3 sips this time. It tasted like shit.

My dietitian warned me my taste buds would change, things would taste different. Not always with nice results.

Had this happened to me?

So I CAN’T drink beer because of the fizz, I get this, it’s a no go area. My stomach will burst out my arse hole. Fair play.

But what if all wine in the world now tastes like dog shit? Do I just endure it for the sake of having 3 sips of booze?

I’ve always loved the taste of alcohol 😦 WEEP

I don’t want this pleasure to be taken away from my mouth box. What will become of me?

Kate Moss one said ……….

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Well, Kate. YOU ARE WRONG. Camden Hells tastes better than being skinny. So does Rum, Port and Stella to name a few.

Kate’s a cunt.

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I shouldn’t panic as this stage, should I?

I’ll try a few more alternatives. Worst case scenario is I live the rest of my life with Blue Nun as my tipple and try and make it my ‘quirk’.. that will never work.

Urgh. This is all Kate’s fault.

PS … I got new hair.

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The Happiest Fatty In Homerton

So, I attended my first legit check-up with the Nurse yesterday since having my belly cut off.

She checked out my wounds and kindly advised me ‘You’re the best one I’ve seen yet’

Flirty bitch, bet she says that to all the fatties.

Fuck it though, I’ll take a compliment where I can get one. Nar’mean?

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I ran through the list of things I’ve been eating this last week since making the move from Puree to ‘soft foods’  … is that not the same thing?

I was little apprehensive thinking I’d got a bit cray cray with my food intake.

I really hate being restricted to basic foods so have been experimenting will all sorts of shit to try and get my kicks.

She was actually impressed at my efforts, my Quorn Satay concoction (Quorn chicken is mega high in protein and SO much easier to digest than real chicken TRUSS) with Courgette / Zucchini for you Americana’s, noodles.

Not forgetting the Cloud Eggs.. MAKE THESE ASAP. I ate like, two thirds of one Egg to start with so don’t be fooled by the big plate. This was just the prettiest picture, gets me bro?

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It’s amazing the dishes you can make with the few foods available at this stage, so for anyone reaching the ‘soft foods’ phase, don’t let this scare you man.

Be bold with your flavours, you will not die from spice, heat and taste. Believe me, I’ve asked many times.

The guy I met back on D Day itself (21st April 2017)  was at the same dietitian session group as me. 5 stone lighter in 4 weeks. PENG.

5 stone and not one smile to be seen. Mizzog.

I was enthusiastic to talk to my fellow survivors, swap notes and compare scars. All the fun shit.

He wasn’t so keen. Kel,spreeeze.

It turns out he has had a very different experience with his new found tiny bellied life since having the surgery compared to me.

He decided (even though we were specifically told on many occasions to be mobile as soon as possible after surgery) to stay in bed for 2 weeks after the surgery.

He decided (even though we were specifically advised of the step by step diet to follow) that he was going to try and eat whatever he wanted from word go, thus meaning he’s been violently sick many many times and has decided to give up on the diet all together and just live of protein shakes only.

Suuuuuuure, so so very wise.

Why the fuck would you put yourself through all this shit to give up at the first hurdle?

I sat in the dietitian session with the this miserable bunch of shrinking chubsters.

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Why was I the only happy one here? Why was I the only one buzzing with my new diet that’s given me so much more energy?

Woman 1 – cried multiple times. She is sad she can’t eat the same as her teenage daughters and husband anymore.

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Woman 2 – Moaning that she’s full after 2 spoons of cottage cheese

Woman 3 – Hair’s falling out (valid weep, I’ll give her that one)

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Woman 4 – Still fat after 5 weeks

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Man 1 – As above

Man 2 – Won’t speak for himself but his wife tells us he’s not in a good mood.

You can’t help but ask yourself. Did any of them research the operation before taking the plunge?

Did any of them cast an eye over the mountain of information provided for them by the super fuckin helpful NHS Staff at Homerton Hospital?

I was glad when the session was over. Those berk’s were killing my vibe man.

It’s another month or so until I get to see the happy bastards again so that time I aim to prove them all wrong even further and be thrice as happy for our next reunion.

THRICE AS HAPPY!

PS …. I LOVE YOU MANCHESTER 

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Weight Watching Woe’s

Another week, another 4 lbs.

Don’t you find that such a small loss considering the little I can eat? I do, almost an injustice.

I have to remind myself that inch loss and lbs loss are very different things and it does comfort me to know that this isn’t just me battling the scales. Most Sleeve’heads find themselves stuck in this same rut and assure me not to be disheartened.

4 lbs in a week would leave most people euphoric man. But pre op, if I’d have lost 4 lbs in a week id be amazed knowing that I’d had that secret double c’dubz from Maccy D’s or that ‘cheeky’ Nando’s with aaaaaaaaall the sides. So yes, true say I’d be fuckin buzzing through sheer disbelief.

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But now.. Let me tell you an average day of binge eating for Lilli B.

9am – 100 lm Actimel – 28KCAL

10am – 200ml Protein Shake – 126KCAL

11am – Decaf Coffee with 2 scoops protein milk + splash of unsweetened almond milk – 215KCAL

12pm – 200lm Chicken Broth – 104KCAL

1pm – 100 lm Actimel – 28KCAL

2pm – 200ml Protein Shake – 126KCAL

3pm – Decaf Coffee with 2 scoops protein milk + splash of unsweetened almond milk – 215KCAL

7pm – Ham / Parmesan omelette made with 1 FUCKIN EGG YO – 293KCAL

9pm – 200ml Protein Shake – 126KCAL

So that’s a total of 1261KCAL if I was successful in consuming all of the above. Which I can’t.

To some people this might actually sound like a lot of calories, a few people even suggested trying the 5 / 2 day to which I responded ‘ARE YOU FUCKIN INSANE’ … A majority of the calories consumed are for protein to stop me from keeling over and disintegrating to dust and blowing away in the wind.

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I’ve already started to experience the joys of, or lack thereof nutrients and vitamins. Thanks to having a lesser immune system than Freddie Fuckin Mercury I managed to wangle myself a nice big fat abscess right in the middle of my head / cheek / face.

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When your immune system is down and your body decides to book it, pack it and fuck off for a few days it can make you very susceptible to infections, illness and fatigue.

Mine came in the form of this swell head. Sexy, I know.

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All this bang on schedule for my first birthday post op. 3 weeks post op, so not it’s even like I’m far enough down the road to forget the rules and sup a sneaky brewski. I was dreading it. I’ve been marinating myself in misery since the 1st of May. Anytime someone would ask me what my plans were for the celebrations I’d wince at the thought and mumble … RACK OOOOORF!

How can a birthday be fun without booze? How is that even possible? If there’s no booze then you at least need food, right?

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LET ME TELL YOU THIS THOUGH. Birthday’s can be really fucking fun. Booze or not.

Okay, so the abscess kinda plagued my brain throughout the duration of the MASSES of ace stuff my wonderful friends organised for me but a few antibiotics later and we cool bro.

Moral of the story. There isn’t one.

I just needed to remind myself that this is a long term goal. this shit wont happen over night. I wouldn’t want it to. My skin would fall of my bones and my tits would evaporate into thin air.

boobsI need to stop putting pressure on myself to lose 24578515367693625436569836534365lbs in a day. Stop obsessing over other people’s Instagram stories and feeling bad i’m not at their level yet. Stop comparing myself. Stop fucking pranging out.

It’s all gravy.

Mmmmmm, gravy.

 

 

 

Egg’citing News. Kinda.

Guess what’s happened since last week?

You will never guess, it’s just SO fucking exciting.

I ate two spoonfuls of scrambled egg. Legit. I fucking did it.

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I had to walk off the fullness misery for like 30 minutes after but who cares. I. Ate. Savoury. Goodness.

This week I also experienced my first real ‘Dumping Syndrome’ situation.

Now this was very mild in comparison to what some people experience, as this is usually associated with the Gastric Bypass as opposed to the Gastric Sleeve. But when it happens, it ferrrrks you up.

So for all you potential Sleeve heads out there take note when your Doctor tells you to make extra sure that EVERYTHING you consume is sugar free. Because trusss a brother when I tell you, it’s not a fun experience.

Within seconds of drinking the tiniest amount of flavoured milk I felt the milk hit my stomach. I felt shaky, felt the colour drain from my face and needed to lay down and literally sleep within minutes of the sugars digesting.

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This didn’t last long thankfully, like I say the sleeve minimalizes this reaction. So if you’re considering a bypass over a sleeve. Really think about this for your long term happiness. It’s a shitter. This is the menial shit you will have to deal with that will impact your life for a loooong time.

Other than that the recovery is running smoother than, what’s a really smooth process?

By definition, let’s go with – happening or done without any problems

  • ‘With the aid of observers, the election process was a smooth
  • Our trip was smoothand uneventful’

I’ve read many other blogs on Weight Loss Surgery. All a bit shit to be fair, not very informative and dryer than fuckin burnt toast mate.

One recurring statement I read time and time again is … ‘I wish I’d have had this operation years ago’

I was thinking about this, do I wish that i’d have had this surgery years ago? Do I wish i made different choices and missed out on my 20’s getting mash up in fields and festivals? Drinking, eating, getting berserk with my friends. Experiencing foods and boozes from different countries. Would I have missed out on all of that? Would I fuck.

Look at the fuckin memories I would have missed man.

 

I’m 32 for another week. BURN. I’ve still got enough life left to recover and get berserk all over again. Just on a smaller scale. Cheaper date init?

The nickname of Liverless Lilli is long gone. ‘RIP to the girl I used to be’ as Rita Ora once said just after her Gastric Sleeve. (Don’t quote me on that) Light weight Lil might be more apt going forward.

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10 Days Done & Only Shit Myself Once.

11 days Post Op

25 days Post Food

10 days until I can move on to puree food

18 days until I can eat mush

30 days until I can eat food

By the time I can ‘eat’ real food it will have been 7 weeks since I last chewed a piece of food.

Nearly two fuckin months of no chewing.

Even my teeny tiny pills have to be crushed to dust and nailed in n NHS shot glass like a boss.

I feel that I now finally appreciate the psychological impact of not being able to eat.

I’m not hungry. That’s not the issue. It’s that physical act of chewing food. Licking the spoon when you cook. Licking your fingers when you prepare juicy meat.

It’s the physical act of just wanting something, anything substantial in your mouthbox.

I have no idea why I’m obsessing so much over trying to lick a spoon when I can barely even get inside me the basics required to keep me alive.

It’s really fuckin laborious planning your entire day around ml’s of protein / water / liquids and at times I will find any excuse to skip one because I simply cannot be arsed.

But did I go through all this to then start fucking about with my diet. NAH BRO.. sip that shit and crack on.

The greatest thing happened to me yesterday when I dipped my now not so chubby little digit fingers into Holly’s hummus pot.

That taste. That sweet mother fuckin savoury taste of chick pea.

Why do protein shakes not come in ace savoury flavours? Chicken Curry Protein Shake, why does that not exist?

With the image of Chicken Curry Protein shake in my head this reminds me, did I tell you I shit myself the other day?

Okay, not my finest moment. In fact, up there with one of the worst.

Fucking constipation man, the bane of my life. The wonder that is our NHS provided me kindly with Lactulose Solution to help get things going down there in the old bowl box to ensure I didn’t have to push too hard and burst my belly open.

It was a very unfortunate event. See, I just assumed it was a regular fart after being pumped with gas for keyhole surgery.

It was not a regular fart.

The last time I felt wet water shit splash up my back was when I was in nappies. I never thought at the age of 32 it would be something I would have to encounter again but alas.

Anyway, enough of shit talk. I finally took my dressings off today. The dissolvable stitches should be about to, well, dissolve?

This is what I’m left with so far. Not too shabby in my opinion. I was kinda expecting Zorro slashes or like, big dutty war wounds. But no. Just nice neat, not too gross little shank wounds.

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In fairness the worst looking part at the moment is battered and bruised belly from the Enoxaparin Sodium Injections. To say these injections are used to minimise bruising (and clots) it’s quite ironic that my belly looks like land and sea plotted across the globe. ONLY 4 MORE LEFT THOUGH. I’ll kind of miss the injections I think, there is something quite empowering about stabbing yourself in the belly and not crying.

 

I’m back at the Doctors today for my first official check up. Make sure i’m still alive and all that shit. Bloods, blood pressure, heart fate, leakages, bleeding.. all the fun stuff.

Wish me luck.

 

LILLI’S FEAR CHART – 0 out of 10 … this fear chart can fuck off now. I AM BEOWOLF.