I was 221 lbs so down 199 from my starting weight of 420.  I wanted to lose 210 lbs to be half the person I used to be, but after four three months of working downtown I had stabilized here and I thought this would be a good weight to make my new home.  Maybe surgery would remove 10 lbs of whatever and I would reach my target but this seemed unlikely.  So, with heavy heart, and a soon to be empty wallet, I called to schedule two procedures to get rid of an excess of me.  Time to shrink.

I called to schedule an initial pre-op visit:

*chatter about scheduling*

Receptionist: Everything will be fine, the doctor is quite skilled.
Me: I’m not worried about the doctor, I’m worried about the anesthesiologist.
Receptionist: Don’t say that.  Everything will be fine.
Me: What?  He’s five times more likely to kill me than the surgeon.
Receptionist: STOP SAYING THAT.
Me: Hey, I’m an actuary, I know these things.
Receptionist: Well, I’m sure the anesthesiologist is good too.  Have a nice day, actuary.

I woke to a thudding noise that filled me with horror. Max was repeatedly standing up, walking a few steps, and then falling over. His incontinence had continued and after a few falls he laid back down on his sleeping mat. My father and I took him to the Langhorne Animal Hospital and in his weakened state I had to to lift him into the car, then into the hospital, then into the examination room. Some initial diagnostics suggested that he had a case of Lyme Disease that had blown out under his prednisone-weakened immune system. When done and while my father was attending to paperwork, I saw a family with a small girl walk into the hospital. The girl held a drawing in her hand that said “GET WELL SOON” and she said to her parents “I made Mittens a picture”.

My father was shaken by Max’s time in the hospital. He couldn’t physically move Max in the same way I could and I was also keeping track of Max’s medication. This has reminded my dad of his own limits but also reminded him that there are others. I’ve found the compassion required to care for this 82 lb dumb mass of incontinent, quivering, yet loving fur to be effortless and to tap into my “this is right” well that rarely gets touched. I hope I am equally able to draw from this well should the people around me one day need me to clean up after then, take care of their medication, and lead them through a medical structure where they have no idea what’s going on.

I visited my adversarial doctor regarding the growing back pain and had the following exchange worthy of Aaron Sorkin:

Doctor: He’s your perscription
Me: For……
Doctor: Your back, I think it’s muscular and would send you in for an MRI but I’m pretty sure you won’t fit in the machine.
Me: So what caused it?
Doctor: Pickle jar.
Me:  Really?  I don’t eat pickles.
Doctor: Hm… maybe mustard, how about jam?
Me: I do enjoy a good jam.
Doctor: Probably jam then.
Me: So I should stop eating jam?
Doctor: No, just the jars.
Me: Don’t eat jam jars?
Doctor: No opening them.
Me: But I haven’t opened a jar of jam in weeks.
Doctor: It could be the fact that your fat.  Or maybe you lifted something heavy (giggles) or maybe how you sleep.
Me: So you jumped to the pickle jar before saying it’s caused by me having a BMI that’s usually listed in up arrow notation?
Doctor: I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.  Don’t lift anything heavy, except you.  Remember walk walk walk walk walk (while making this waddling motion).

I hate my doctor.  But my urge to never see him drives me to proper health.  “I get bedrest and fluids alright you fucker, I’ll be damned if I see you again for this condition”.