Road to Hell

The road to Hell could be paved with fat.

The whole process of Lap Band(R) surgery is generally called a "journey" by those who go through with it. Sounds so nice, that word. Like a vacation to a beautiful place -- where people greet you with a welcoming smile and refreshments.

I began this whole thing last November when a friend of mine was just beginning her journey. I made her promise to tell me every single detail. I was also considering it, since I finally had insurance that would cover it. She lived in Australia, where this kind of surgery is old hat, and has a long track record of success. She was about a week away from her surgery, just like I am as I write this.

I want to be thinner, of course. But, more importantly, as I saw my dad disintegrating before my eyes due to ill health, I became more determined. I don't care how long I live, but while I'm here, I want to be in as good shape as possible. I'm convinced that his dementia was augmented by his diabetes, and a recent study seems to support that conclusion.

Of course, if you want to make a case for just about anything, you can find a study to point to, and say, "See? 'Told you so!" I once found one that said you could eradicate the bad effects of smoking a cigarette by drinking two glasses of red wine. I would have been pretty hammered back when I was smoking upwards of two packs a day, but if I wanted to make a case for either drinking or smoking, I'd choose that study.

Anyway, there was an article last January in JAMA about a study done in Australia. It reported that 73 percent of the participants who had bariatric surgery for weight loss experienced full remission from diabetes. Incredible. Who cares if it only involved 60 people? I like that study.

I thought it'd be a good idea to go to a meeting being held by local "bandsters". Ironically, it was being held at a restaurant. As instructed, I asked the maitre 'D for Phyliss, the code to get to the table. The waiter arched his eyebrows and nodded in the direction of a long table where lots of fat women were seated. Upon further investigation, however, I realized that most of these women had been twice this size, pre-surgery.

I sat next to one of the trimmer ones, one who didn't give me that, "What are you doing here?" attitude. Okay, so I'm not 300 pounds. I don't want to have to get there before I start this process. A bouncy blonde asked me if I wanted to "feel her port". This is not an offer I get every day, so I jumped at the opportunity. I watched people eat just about anything, I asked a thousand questions. By the end of the meeting, I was convinced that this surgery was for me. There was only one problem: I was about 10 pounds short of the BMI (Body Mass Index) I'd need to be in order to qualify for the surgery.

"Two or three pizzas," I wrote to my friend via email. "Mau', I can gain four pounds overnight. I do that a couple of times and voila! I'm right there in BMI land." She thought it was funny; I thought eating a few more carbs would be a small sacrifice in the name of remission. That's what was required along with the co-morbidity factors I have, such as high blood pressure, high-cholesterol and diabetes. It's either that, or be more than 100 pounds overweight to get the surgery.

I wanted to find out about my brother's surgeon, the guy who had done his very successful gastric bypass, a much more radical procedure than the gastric banding.

"Pffttt. You won't qualify," Bruce scoffed.
"Two pizzas, Man. Three, tops, and I'm there."

Ahh, if only. Mau's surgery seemed to have taken her a lifetime to arrange down under. It took her a month or two with all the doctor's visits and paperwork to get it going. Still, she was losing already, and was very happy she'd gone through with it all. She encouraged me to join her, and I was ready.

I went to the surgeon's required seminar. It was the same one I'd attended with Bruce when he had to go. I had all my questions at the ready and I fired them at him. He didn't flinch. He was cocky as nobody's business, but in a way that didn't bother me for a surgeon. I wanted his talent, not his personality. Out front at the seminar, a very skinny woman was already gathering paperwork from the dozens of people who were dying to be thin. Business was good. My insurance was changing at the first of the year, but to a company that would be a breeze for approval, they assured me, as they handed me a folder of materials to read.

So, it was the beginning of December, and since I didn't have the right insurance yet, all I could really do at that point, was to do a lot of research and get on down that road.

This journey couldn't begin soon enough, I thought, as I woofed down a combo slice with extra mushrooms.