Memo to self

Don't eat when you know it isn't going to go down. I've been throwing up for, oh, three hours or so now.

That being said, it's been helpful in one way: I'm trying to finish up a paper, and the fact that I'm constantly having to go back to the bathroom is at least keeping me awake enough to be able to write my paper in between puke sessions.

Of course, Rick is blissfully going on about his business, snoring cheerfully. I'm glad he can sleep through the sounds of muffled retching from the bathroom. He's probably used to it by now, anyway.

Someday I may go back under the knife and have this stomach surgery revised up to a full-blown gastric bypass. I wish I'd done that before, but I just didn't know at the time that that's what I should've done. Back in December, 1997, I opted for the less dramatic form of bariatric surgery, which was a simple stomach-stapling procedure combined with a narrow silicone band around the bottom outlet to prevent anything larger than the diameter of my pinky from ever making it through. It's a pain, really, because it prevents me from eating stuff that's really fibrous like broccoli and salads and stuff -- which is more of what I need anyway. Most of the time, crap like ice cream goes down just fine. But then there are those days when I'm upset, nervous, excited, what-have-you... and it just seems to swell that little silicone ring shut. There are some days when even water won't go through. I just have to rest and wait it out until the swelling subsides. If I'm trying to be "normal" and eat when everyone else does, though, it invariably means I'll spend inordinate amounts of time later hanging my head over the sink, the toilet or the trash can.

Did the surgery work? Well, yes. But not like I'd hoped. Yes, I'm still a big supporter of bariatric surgery as a viable option for someone who's seriously obese. There's a lot to be said for being able to fit into a seat in an airplane or a movie theater. And surgery is not my idea of the "easy way out." That surgery was HELLACIOUS to recover from, and I am not lying to you. Those first few nights in the hospital were so miserable that I honestly just wanted to die. Nope, that wasn't easy. Spending the past seven years puking my guts up hasn't been easy, either (although I do have to say that I've gotten much better at it than I used to be -- it's rather mechanical now, and I don't even have to gag myself with my finger, I can just think it and make it happen).

The best thing that came from having the surgery was that the rapid post-op weight loss triggered my fertility and I was able to conceive my son Isaac. A year after he was born, I conceived again, but lost that baby at 10 weeks in a hotel room one miserable November night. Since then I've been infertile again. But I did get an adorable little boy out of the deal. For that, I'd puke for the rest of my life.