AND WE WILL NEVER MENTION GALL BLADDERS AGAIN….. EVER

HERE YEEEE HERE YEEEE! The Gallbladder has fought it’s last round, sang it’s last song and … I can’t think or any other irrelevant analogies to misuse so i’ll wind it in by just confirming that the gall bladder and all of it’s toxic stones have now been evicted.

5 days ago the wonders that be at Homerton University Hospital stabbed me up 4 more times and whipped the little fucker right out. My torso looks not too dissimilar to a game of Kerplunk now its home to 11 incisions but hey, it was necessary.

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I was greeted at hospital by a team of nurses that each weirdly resembled a member of The N.W.A and I couldn’t have felt more secure and looked after. Fuckin’ ace bitches every one of them. ❤

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They even ‘raised the roof’ when I finally managed to part with a piss after 2673838 million attempts post surgery, a sure clear sign I was fit and well enough to go home.

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As elated as I am knowing that cretin gall bladder will never cause me strife again I can’t help but feel so very sad I’m under strict instruction to stay out of the gym for 6 whole weeks. No lifting, no intense exercise and NO core stability class. The last one I am not so sad about.

I was also told AFTER surgery that I will now be susceptible to hernias (that’s fine, I can avoid this if I follow the post op advice) BUT.. what I cannot avoid is a life long battle with intense bouts of ultimate diarrhoea. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH Eh? Y THO?

As a predominantly constipated individual i’m looking on the bright side and figuring that this may even out the solid shit with the sloppy shit and settle on a an equilibrium of just standard normal shit.

Feel free to piss on my chips and tell me this is bull shit but it’s a theory i’m running with until proven otherwise. Otherwise being yesterday when I experienced my first ’bout’ … that was the first time though, i’m not taking that as a given for future reference.

Let me just bury my big head right back in the sand on this matter.

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But again, FUCK ALL THAT. The pain is over, the attacks are no more and even though i’m only 5 days post op I feel an overwhelming relief that this 8 month ‘agony phase’ is now over and done with. 6 weeks recoup is a small price to pay. A life time of turbo shits is a small price to pay.  A stab wound straight through my mother fuckin belly button is a small price to pay.

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BTW, this 1 incision makes me feel queasy. All the others are sweet, legit, perfect… all stab wounds but NOT THROUGH MY BELLY BUTTON.

The belly button is the gate way to your soul, if this unravels then as far as I’ve been told SINCE BIRTH your entire body and all of its contents will just fall out of your skin.

I’ve always had an ‘inny’ belly button which means I’ve always liked to put things inside it as a little secret space no one could ever find but me. I held coins in it as a child, crayons and even chocolate at one point. Very messy, I don’t recommend it.

So it unsettled me that this sacred haven that has stopped me falling apart for 33 years has now been penetrated by my sisters in The N.W.A, sorry NHS.

I forgive them of course, but always give a sister a heads up when you’re gonna go messing with her coin holder. It’s just manners bro.

 

 

 

 

RIP 10 Stones of FAT! Laters Potatoes

YO! Long-time no see hey?

So I took a little time out from my incessant chatting of shit whilst my whole weight loss ‘journey’ was being severely dominated by the bane of my existence that is my Gall Bladder.

I have bored myself to tears many times now talking about them, moaning about them, over explaining to my boss why I can’t get off the floor because of them. Unfortunately the stones care not for my plea to FUCK OFF and remain a solid fixture until my surgeon whips the whole gall bladder out.

When will this be? How long is a piece of string, Bro? Who the fuck knows.

I do however FINALLY my Pre Op Assessment have on the 22nd on January so maybe…MAYBE we will get some confirmation. A little shiny light at the end of this pretty fuckin painful tunnel.

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Anyway, let’s move on to more pressing issues like.. ME HITTING MY FUCKIN GOAL WEIGHT.

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Yas, it happened. Now, let me first of all stress that this is MY goal weight, not my Doctors goal weight.

According to my Bariatric team I should weigh approximately 10 to 11 stone whereas for my height and build my aim has always been 12 Stone aka 168 Lbs aka 76.6Kg

Now, call me crazy but having lost 10 stone 2Lbs aka 142 Lbs aka 64.3Kg I feel quite a sense of achievement in that.

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I feel healthy happy, both mentally and physically and I whilst it’s been such a challenge adjusting my mind-set to my new diet I feel like I have a great balance I am confident I can maintain which to me is the most important thing. Not going backwards.

Going backwards, the dreaded gain, the ‘popping that one extra mince pie in at Christmas’ which will catapult you a hundred miles an hour straight back to Fatty Ville is every VSG Post Op’ers realest nightmare.

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I weighed myself this morning after a heavy weekend on the sauce in Switzerland followed by a Chinese last night upon our return.

1lb gain. MELTDOWN?  No, I’m not going down with that ship. It’s so very easy to become obsessed with the scales, too easy to beat yourself up and tear yourself down over a 1 pound gain as opposed to cheer yourself on for the other 168 that you have actually lost.

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Today I’m back on my protein shake breakfast, my skinny decaf and my high protein low carb lunch. That lb will have fucked off my Friday and life shall go on.

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I’m guessing what you want to know by now is what happens to someone’s body when they lose 10stone?

Okay, the truth. My truth at least.

My tits are fucked. They look like suet puddings.

Nice with chips & gravy but not what you want stuck to your chest. When I lie down I feel like a 6 year old boy. My ribs stick out higher than my boobs. Not ideal.

Weirdly it’s not like they’ve sagged, just deflated. Could I have picked a more apt blog name before this all happened? Maybe I jinxed myself. Ace

Next is my arse. ‘What arse’ I hear you say? Exactly. It’s gone. The only reason I know I still have one is thanks to my constant state of protein induced constipation.

Belly? It’s defo like jelly now. I kind of like it. Feels like velvet when I’m in the bath and I squidge it all together.

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Will I need plastic surgery? Maybe. I 100% want my boobs reflated.  I have always had jugs a plenty and I miss them greatly. Plus it would be nice for my Fiancé to revert back to my original nick name of ‘Big Joooceh Titties’ as opposed to the ‘Tiny Cupcake Tits’ he calls me now.

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Urgh.

The Gall Sadder Blues

So it seems quite a lot has happened since my post last week where life was nothing but sweet peach ready to be devoured.

This week, all hell broke loose INSIDE OF ME.

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If you’re a regz reader you will no doubt be totally familiar with my ‘Acid Re-flux’ woes.

Having never experienced re-flux prior to my surgery I took it as gospel when the DR diagnosed me that it was pretty common to feel like the pits of hell were imploding within my body.

Why would I question that intense body cramps, spewing up blood and generally clinging on to dear life wasn’t just totally common when several DR’s and dietitians have told me it’s part of the process.

I’d cut out the caffeine and the bread and most gluten. I’d made it my routine to walk off all foods consumed each time I put one bite in my mouth box. I’d followed all the rules.

Why the fuck is this still an issue?

Monday last week agony struck. Luckily for me I have really fuckin understanding bosses who’ve let me work from home to allow me to sit in a hot bath whilst I work or pace the living room to try and ease the cramps.

By Wednesday shit had gone turbo. After hours of cramps, tears, sick and more blood my DR sent me straight to A&E where I was admitted pretty much on arrival.

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My first night in hospital I was woken at approximately 3am by the feeling of something very hard and cold sneaking into my ear.

I opened my eyes confused. A man stood hovering over me with 2 swabs in 1 hand and a thermometer in the other. He took my temperature clumsily and opened his first swab.

I asked several times what this was for and was met with a very muffled response before I felt my corneas burning from my skull with the brightest flash light beaming directly into my face.

I prepared myself for death. The grim reaper had come to collect me.

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I heard the muffled voice again.. ‘swab nose, swab groin.. do it now’.

First off, this Grim Reaper is a bit pushy and secondly his annunciation is really getting on my tits.

I sat up in bed.

‘What’s happening here man?’

The light above my bed came on.

The night nurse guy waved the swabs in my face and turned around with his back to me.

‘SWAB GROIN’

I swabbed. He turned around. I see the second swab aiming for my face. The swabbed hit my nose. He shouted ‘NOSE RING’ I flinched. He kept repeating swab.

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I’m so fuckin confused. He turned his back to me again. I was asking questions but he just ignored me repeatedly. He turns back to me. The torch is back in my face.

OMG HE’S DEAF.

He’s lip reading me in the pitch black.

He runs away never to be seen again with groin swabs.

2 days of nil by mouth and 2 days of clear liquids (water) several blood tests, several piss tests, 1 endoscopy, 1 abdomen X-Ray and 1 ultrasound I was finally diagnosed with Gall Stones and also an acute obstruction in my sleeved stomach.

YAS.

Like, legit I mean it when I say YAS. Some people panic, worry when they receive news something is wrong and another operation, potential two operations are on the cards but I’m fuckin elated man.

THIS MEANS I CAN BE CURED

What was the alternative, burry my head in the ‘acid re-flux’ sand fo’lyf and carry on les miserables in pure agony every other day. Naaaaaah mate, Allow that.

Once again the NHS have been good to me. Yes, it’s a slow process but see how fuckin fast you work with one set of hands and 18 patients on your ward. What do you want, a fuckin Octopus?

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There was one, okay two slight mishaps where the surgeon got me confused with Lisa in the bed next door and tried to wheel me off to have my gallbladder removed. In hind sight, I wish he did now. Could have saved me 4-6 weeks waiting for my operation.

The other incident was pretty traumatic. A nurse came to my cubicle, drew the curtains and sat me down for a serious conversation.

‘So, Miss O’Hara. When were you first diagnosed with Diabetes?’

‘I HAVE DIABETES?’

Nurse, looks through her notes confused

‘Oh Sorry Miss O’Hara, have you got diabetes?’

‘You’ve taken nearly all the blood in my body over the last few days, you tell me’

‘No you’re fine Miss O’Hara, good bye’

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Surrreeeeee that made me feel so great, especially when a second nurse came and asked for my insulin instructions later in the day. I was getting paranoid man. Do I have diabetes?

Surly after losing nearly 8 stone that should be the least of my issues at this point.

Turns out I 100% do NOT have diabetes.

My life now is heading back to basics. Back to soft foods, soups, baby food and as little fat as possible.

The aim is to keep the pain to a minimum as much as humanly possible until surgery and life can then resume back to normal.

If that means sloppy shit for another 6 weeks then so be it.

I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED BY A FUCKIN STONE.

Easier said than done? Watch this space.

‘Cock Blocked By My Own Belly’ Worst Confession Ever? YAS.

I promise I won’t bore you this week with my never ending acid woes bar the one very quick update that they are now referring me for potential Gall Bladder dramz. Fuck it, if it is my Gall Bladder causing so much beef they can just whip the fucker out and have done with it, right?

I’m like 100% chill about this. Let’s move on.

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In other news I darted over the 7 stone LOST mile stone and have now exactly 2stone 13lbs left to lose to hit my target weight.

By Christmas (IF) I continue the way I have so far I should be bang on time to recreate the Mean Girls classic hit ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ in my soon to be purchased ‘Slutty Santa’ outfit.

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If all does not go to plan and instead I decide to blend up 294632032936749030 selection boxes and nail it in pints as opposed to my trusty Slender Blend I shall follow my option 2 route straight to Primark for a big fat Santa Onesy and spend the festive holidays with my belly hanging out like Waynetta Slob.

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In fairness neither of these two options sound up my street but it’s nice to have goals, gets me?

Speaking of goals, well more of a Bulls Eye target really… How much better is sex when your belly is out of the way? Legit man. I had no idea for so long I was being cock blocked by my own jelly.

Yes, I am aware this is ‘TMI’ but for all you post op readers out there, don’t pretend you haven’t been thinking the exact same thing as me you animals.

 

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On a more wholesome note, can someone please for the love of god tell me when I’m going to be able to shit again like a real person? I’m guessing it’s not OK to still rely on Laxatives once a week before I start walking like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

Something’s got to give man, the struggle is very very real.

As always the positives out way the negatives. Yes my glasses are now far too big for my face but the silver lining is that I now have an excuse to buy new ones.

Yes my hair is still falling out but on a plus side it means Leigh doesn’t peck my head when I drop £160 at the hairdressers instead of free styling my head off at home like a boss man.

Yes I can never pooh but on the plus side I NEVER POOH.

Like, ever.

 

 

 

 

 

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

Free Date With Every Gastric Sleeve? Bargain.

3 month check in with my Surgeon. ROMEO DONE!

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She’s like legit the cutest woman I have ever seen in my life and to think that she was capable of pumping my torso out like a fuckin Puffer Fish and slicing my insides up like Sushi just blows my mind every time.

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She called me a ‘Star Pupil’ and not to gloat but I totally would have buzzed HARD if she’d have given me a badge.

Honestly my experience with the NHS has been nothing but amazing so far which I think its fuckin immense considering the cuts and the intense pressure these fuckin KWEEN’S are all under.

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Maybe the customer service mark was slightly overstepped yesterday when my Dietitian (Let’s call him DIET MAN) asked me out for a drink. I DIED.

SIDE NOTE-

To all that know me IRL will have heard me speak glowingly about DIET MAN pre op.

He was such a huge help and really pushed hard for me to get approved in those final stages considering id been lost in the system several times.

He gave me his number, his pager and his email and was more than happy to have me peck his head and chase up ‘The Board’ to see if my case was in motion.

On reflection. That bitch was KEEN as.

Sat waiting patiently after the glorious catch up with the super fuckin ace Surgeon I scrolled away on my iPhone waiting for the next session to start.

 In walks DIET MAN.

 DM – ‘Catherine, you’re looking great’ WINK 

 Me – Smiles awkwardly forever unable to accept any kind of compliment with grace.

 DM – ‘Yeah, really great. You know, now you’re post op maybe it’s time we grabbed a drink or a coffee sometime. If you fancy?’

 At this point I went straight into THIS MUST BE A JOKE SO LET’S TAKE THE PISS MODE.

 Me – ‘Why are you only just asking me now? Was I not slim enough before you FATTIST?’

I’ve never a pasty white face turn purple quite so fast. I didn’t even have time to laugh and reassure him that I was, of course only being LOL x 10000

I mean, of course I’d never go out with him. He’s rancid. And I’m engaged. But still, I was joking all the same.

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He ran out of the room.

I went back to scrolling on my phone wishing to die before being called into my next Fatties session catch up.

I strolled in. DIET MAN was leading the session. JOY.

I plodded over to my favourite chair in the back corner. He didn’t look at me once.

Oh YAS. Still got it.

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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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