Last Summer, I had a little epiphany. I was sitting in my husband’s hospital room, watching him be fed lunch via a needle stuck in his arm, and coming to terms with the fact that the times and my life, there were a’changin.
I’m a fat girl. There, I said it! Chubby, Rubanesque (WTF does that mean, anyway?), Fluffy, more cushion for the pushin… pick a term and go with it. But I’m certainly on the fluffy side of the chiffon, and hey, that’s okay. I’m ridiculously healthy. I have blood pressure that is actually low, no signs of Wilford Brimley and his die-uh-beee-tus or oatmeal, and for reasons I can’t understand, my cholesterol levels are low. “News at ten: diet heavy in cheese and Mexican food lowers cholesterol. Late night stoners rejoice. Back to you, Steve!”
But while my internal workings are faboo, my knees suck a monkey. I hurt my knees back as a freshman in college, when both knees made full frontal contact with a cinderblock wall. Ow. There is a really long, complicated name for what I have, but in essence it means “WTF did you do, your knees sound like cornflakes being danced on by the Rice Krispy dudes.” They snap, crackle, pop, and lock. And that, Good Reader, is what tweaks me out.
See, Hubby’s Grandma B died about two years ago. She was beyond morbidly obsese when she passed, and she’d lost a TON of weight from cancer. Grandma B was a sweet woman. She was also incredibly large. The kind of large that requires- and I’m not joking- veterinary scales. And it started with bad knees. Because, see, when your knees are in pain, you get told a lot to lose weight to make it better. Fine—but to lose weight, unless you go on the Kate Moss diet, you gotta exercise. Fine- but if your knees are in serious pain… you can’t exercise.
It’s the Hula Hoop of Doom! Round and round and round you go.
So that’s where I was that afternoon, while Hubby finished absorbing his liquid Roast Beef. He’d just been diagnosed with not one, but TWO life altering chronic illnesses which would alter our life together. It also meant that I couldn’t depend on his health to get me through. I had to pull on my XXL BIG girl panties and deal.
So I started examining options. Oh, I’ve lost poundage before, serious poundage. But I’ve lost it through ephedrine, 7+ hours a day of serious exercise, and eating under 1000 calories. I’m not all that interested in going back to that little piece of extended suicide. Who cares if Mommy has a smoking hot ass if she’s biting your head off all the time, right? But basic attempts at losing weight had never worked beyond the first month. So I did it. I dove in, I took the iniative..and I started looking at weight loss surgery.
Yes, WLS. Stomach stapling, “the easy way”, a Chubectomy, whatever you want to call it. My insurance will cover it- but only if you meet their vague requirements. My surgeon, the fabulous Dr. K, felt I was a fabulous candidate. Me! Fabulous! So I started. I spent six months visiting with my general practitioner, the amazing and patient Dr. S, who put me on a “standard diet and exercise regime” that should work for the average person of my size. I saw Dr Awopbopalubop three times to have my head shrunk. I saw a pulmonologist and cardiologist, to discover that behind this impressive rack of mine, I’ve got a hell of a set of lungs and heart. I saw the dietician who cheerfully informed me of all the foods I’d likely never eat again, and shoved handfuls of my new vitamin regime into my bag. I adjusted the way I ate, leaning heavily to proteins. I gave up carbonated beverages. I sped up the date of my wisdom teeth being removed to make sure nothing stood in my way. I did everything my insurance required of me. I didn’t gain, but didn’t lose in my 6 months. I stayed steady. And on March 5th, 2010, I faxed off every bit of paperwork to my surgeon, where he in turn faxed everything up to the good folks at Blue Cross, Blue shield of Minnesota.
And four weeks later, as I sat on my sofa with my mouth stuffed full of gauze and my blood full of painkillers and anesthetics, fresh from having my wisdom teeth yanked in anticipation, I got a letter from BCBS-MN. It was hand addressed! The personal touch! I opened it, unfolded the five page missive, and there it was:
“We received a request to pay for laprascopioc roux-ex-y gastric bypass by Dr. K. Based on the information given to us, our physician reviewer found that the treatment is not medically necessary for your condition.”
Well, fuck.
“Although your health plan will not cover this service, you may receive the treatment at your own expense or have it paid for by other sources.”
REALLY? I can???? Oh my GOSH HOW SWEET OF YOU.
So there it was. DENIAL. In short, even though their guidelines of “co-morbid conditions” is vague at best (a lot of “such as” bs), they decided mine weren’t good enough. I’m not fat enough, haven’t been fat long enough (apparently 32 years isn’t long enough. Who knew?) and not close enough to dying.
I could appeal, but I’d have ONE shot. I called my surgeon. They gave me tips. GO FOR THE KNEES! Uh, I thought we had mentioned my knees? Apparently not. So I went back to Dr. S, who ordered X-rays, etc etc. “You’ll need to be seen by an ortho, and he’ll probably want to do an MRI.” Ooookay. But while I looked at the pile of bills and forms I had from what I’ve done so far, and I considered the price of seeing the ortho and getting an MRI- something I’d have to cover until my deductible is met, I started wondering…
Did I give it my best try during those 6 months?
Was I relying too heavily on the idea of surgery?
*Could* I do it myself?
I decided to try.
That’s why I’m here. Blogging will be my accountability. I’m going to give this the old College try through the summer. If I fail, WHILE TRYING MY DAMNDEST- then I will appeal the ever stingy Christina K who denied me. But if I make it… if I can in fact have my flourless chocolate cake and eat it too?…..
Lets find out, shall we?
