Just recently I flew out for my fourth trip to Sri Lanka. This is not an easy journey as it was 19 hours in an airplane. For the past 16 years or so my weight has fluctuated anywhere between 215 and 275 lbs (98-125kg) and flying made me nervous for a variety of reasons: Would I be comfortable? Would the cart keep hitting my arm? Would I fit in the seat? Would they make me pay more or tell me to leave? Would my feet and legs swell like they have in the past? I also thought about who I was going to sit next to. If it was my husband or sister who are both small and know me, I was okay invading their space. I remember my sister getting annoyed at me on a bus: How dare she comment? I can’t help being fat, sorry there’s nothing I... Continue Reading
I lay strapped down on the operating table and looked up at the bright lamps and masked faces above me. In preparation for the major surgery I would undergo, I had been given no food for several days to clean out my gastro-intestinal system, and I was pumped full of antibiotics and sedatives. I was trembling uncontrollably and kept hearing my parents’ voices when they phoned me the night before. “Don’t do it!” they begged. “There must be some other way for you to lose weight.” But nothing would stop me now! I was finally going to have the weight-loss surgery for which I had waited so long. My last thought as the anesthetic sent me spiraling down into a whirlpool of darkness was, “I don’t care if I die. I can’t go on living like this.” I was 33 years old, with a husband and three small children, and... Continue Reading
