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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Je m’appelle Alan Shearer. Wounded.

The 2 years of waiting are drawing to a close.

CONFIRMATION. THE GREEN LIGHT. THE GO AHEAD.

I had my ‘final’ appointment with my dietitian last week. I’ve had this ‘final’ appointment 2864384793 times it seems.

This though, this was the FINAL one.

I’ve shed enough lbs, I’ve had enough injections, I’ve even stopped bleaching my fucking weave to show commitment to the aftermath. What else can a brother do?

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In 16 weeks (or less) I will slice my belly off for life.

I want to celebrate by filling my face with enough booze to sedate me until 2017. Alas, I WILL REFRAIN. I want to eat a bucket of KFC so fast that I have to plug a greasy thigh up my arse hole just to absorb the chickeny goodness rapid ting. Alas, I WILL REFRAIN.

The fear hasn’t kicked in yet, the nervous sick feeling that will soon engulf my body is far from close because i’m buzzing so. fucking. hard.

The knock on effect of this new found happiness is reaching new levels I never thought possible. Online shopping. Thine nemesis. How I love/loathe thee. 2 months ago I couldn’t make it through at day at work let alone a week with a ‘cheeky’ purchase from ASOS Curve or some other plus size distributor I felt compelled to pretend I liked through lack of options.

Now when that scratch needs to be itched I side step the BUY NOW option and add a ‘thinspiration’ outfit to my ever growing wish list. This will be an expensive transition. Sorry Leigh. NOT SORRY.

Questions:- When you lose a sizeable amount of weight, is it true your feet shrink too?

Questions:- Will my carves shrink and finally coexist along side the rest of my body?

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My calves have lived as a separate entity along side my legs/body for for 32 years. When I was in Primary School the ‘Professional Photography’ called me Shearer as I waddled in for my end of year photo. Cute.

I was buzzing, I thought he was insinuating I looked like She Ra, ultimate babe station. Which in itself would have been odd considering I was 8 and that surly would have made him the ideal candidate for operation Yew-tree. He corrected me sure enough. Shearer. I looked like fuckin Alan Shearer. Red faced bruiser with MASSIVE CALVES. Did you know Big Al was known for his muscular calves? Me neither when I was 8, I’ve known that ever since though. Truss.

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LILLI’S FEAR CHART

3 out of 10