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I believe that I'm healing well. I don't feel much pain, beyond the
occasional twinge when I cough or sneeze. I'm taking a hydrocodone /
ibuprofin mix for that, but I'm planning on beginning to taper that off
starting tomorrow. I still get out of breath too darned quickly, but that
will improve in time as well, and soon I'll be moving better than I have in
years.

As with any life-changing decision, there is depression to be faced. It's
usually a fleeting thing, only felt for a few moments before I find myself
smiling once more, but it's something that everyone who goes through this
surgery has to deal with. For all of the difficulties of my old life, it was
comfortable. Change isn't comfortable. Change is frightening...and sad.
There is mourning for things and habits that are going away now. They may
not have been healthy things or healthy habits, but they were a part of me
and I'm giving them up. Even though it's better for me and I'll be happier
in the long run, it's still a loss that I will mourn in some small measure.
But I knew that would happen and I believe that I'm as prepared for it as
anyone can be.

I'm already tired of liquids. I want to chew something. I know it's silly,
but I do. One more week and I can have soft foods for four weeks. Then,
finally, I will be back to regular foods. Sometimes it seems like forever,
but then other times I realize just how short that time really is. 7
weeks...that will be March 7th. That's in the middle of rehearsals. I know
how quickly time flies while we're in rehearsals, so it won't be that long
at all. And in that 7 weeks, if I keep losing at the rate I've lost this
week, I'll have lost a total of around 80-100 pounds. It's hard to
comprehend, really. It took me almost a year to lose 52 pounds the last time
I tried to lose weight. I fully expect to lose either at the same rate or
faster during rehearsals and faire, because that's when I'm the most
physically active during my year. Only this year I'll be able to REMAIN
active when faire is over, because I'll be light enough that movement isn't
a chore but instead will become a pleasure.

I can't wait. I can't wait to ENJOY moving again.

When I was a child, I used to swim all of the time. My family had a pool and
I would spend entire summers in there. I would get up and put on my bathing
suit, eat breakfast, read for a little while, then go into the pool. I would
stay there until Mom made me get out for lunch, and again til dinner. You
know what I loved? I loved the feel of the water flowing past me as I moved
back and forth. We didn't have a bunch of floaty pool rafts, when we were in
the pool we were generally swimming. I would just go from deep end to
shallow to deep again, climbing out to dive or jump in. I rarely had people
in there with me, we lived too far out in the country for friends to get to
our place without a lot of advance arrangements. Besides, I didn't really
have many friends anyway. But it didn't matter, because I had the pool all
to myself.

I'm sure that Mom was watching me from the house a lot. After all, you don't
just leave your child in the water unsupervised for days at a time, but she
was busy so I expect that she would just glance out now and then, making
sure that the splashing was just me having fun rather than something
untoward happening.

I miss that feeling...the silkiness of the water sliding over skin as you
swim, the rhythmic flow of blood to your muscles as your heart beats in time
with each kick of your feet and each stroke of your arms. I miss cutting
through the water in smooth motions, turning my head to breathe in perfect
time with the twist of the body that accompanies each round of the arm.

Movement didn't become something that I didn't enjoy until I became too
heavy for it to be fun. When the knees and ankles started aching with each
step and when I could feel the floor shaking no matter how lightly I tried
to tread. Then movement became an embarassment, my face flushed from the
effort of walking down a hall or across the way. I hated how my chest would
heave as my lungs labored to find enough air to push the mass that was me
another step, and another. Movement became something to fear, because each
movement brought with it the potential for ridicule as the fat jiggled and
my many chins bounced. And with everything that becomes hated, it became
something to be avoided. Benches became my home and the world moved on
without me because I was too fat to move with it.

It's a hard thing to know that's happening to you, and even harder when you
feel powerless to stop it.

Now it's going the other way, and soon I'll be able to move again. Soon I'll
be able to fall into step with a friend and hold a conversation as we walk
rather than just nod and breathlessly say "yes" or "no" or other
monosyllabic replies as I struggle to split my air between supporting my
failing body and sounding like an intelligent being. Soon I'll be able to
dance and sing and do all of those things that I've loved but felt hopeless
at.

I don't know if anyone can understand just what a gift that is. But it's the
most priceless gift I could ever have, and I will never, ever, EVER waste it
again.