VERTIGO-GO

So I'm cruising along on day 3, feeling hungry, but eating what I need to when I need to. I even had some delicious homemade soup to look forward to for dinner. Squash, carrot, and celery soup, pureed into a warm, pumpkiny color. I enjoyed it thoroughly, so grateful to not have to resort to cream of anything...

Unfortunately I got sick about ten minutes after eating. I mean SICK. I was dizzy, nauseated, belching, and began throwing up. This is no small thing for a person with a Nissan fundiplication. Throwing up is not nearly as easy when you have one, but I managed. Six, eight, fourteen times during the following evening and morning. Then I stopped throwing up, but even the thought of water would make me nauseated again.

I crawled into bed and stayed there for 27 hours. If I stayed down, I wasn't as dizzy, which meant I wasn't as nauseated. Every time I belched I'd slow my breathing until it stopped. I existed, floating on a miasma of quashed misery, knowing the moment I sat up I was going to feel horrible once more.

Of course I wondered if this had anything to do with:

1. the soup
2. the diet
3. the flu that has been going around town 

The soup had all fresh ingredients and was prepared by someone who knows how to make great soups. So I ruled food-poisoning out.

The diet, while monotonous and unsatisfying, didn't seem bad enough to make me that sick. I grudgingly put it aside, even as I realized that I didn't want anything to do with a protein shake at that moment, but might have accepted a piece of dried toast. I did not indulge in the toast, but neither would I drink the shake.

So I was left with the idea that it is a flu bug - one that will hopefully disappear on its own by the end of the weekend. However, I wanted medical corroboration and advice. So I phoned the Bariatric surgery center of the hospital.

At 4:30 in the afternoon on a Friday only weeks before Christmas.

Not too surprisingly, they were closed. A robo-voice advised me to hang up and dial 911 if it was a real medical emergency, but they also offered a number for 'urgent' situations. I called it.

The secretary asked about my situation, I described it. She went looking for a nurse and apparently found one who felt no need to speak to me directly. She wanted to know if I'd phoned my primary care doctor. I said no, and she suggested I do so. It was now 4:45 and the sun had set.

My doctor's office  was closed, but they had a triage nurse on staff who agreed to phone the doctor on call, who just happened to be my primary care physician. By 6 o'clock I'd been advised that as long as I was able to keep water down I should probably stay home, otherwise I should report to an ER to avoid dehydration. By 9 o'clock I'd gotten 12 oz. of water down, and while still dizzy and lying down, I felt some better. I sat up from 10 to midnight... a victory!

Here it is, day five. I lost a day and a half, more or less, to whatever that was. I obviously feel better because even thinking about this post made me dizzy just hours ago. But I'm still not 100%, so I'm eating a yogurt, drinking 8oz. of water, and going back to bed.

No one takes photos of themselves when they feel this sick... that's my story and I'm sticking to it. 

In Vain, or Insane?

So the best part of day 2 on a liquid diet is that day 1 is over.

Although I grazed through the day with

• 7 8oz cups of water
• 3 protein drinks, 
• 2 cups of cream of broccoli soup (eww!), 
• 1/2 cup of Malt-o-Meal (yeah, they still make it and it still tastes the same...), 
• one 4oz container of applesauce (no sugar added), 
• one 4oz container of non-fat pudding, 
• and one truly bitter container of yogurt, 

somehow I was hungry pretty much every minute of the day.

Okay, in the interest of total disclosure, there were about 10-15 minutes following the protein shakes where I wasn't actively hungry, but it roared back within the hour.

However, I'm one day closer to my goal, and THAT is pretty cool.

So day 2 started off with me wondering if I should take some photos of myself at the beginning of the journey. After I stopped quivering, I tried once more to talk myself into it. Same visceral reaction.

I learned a long time ago that you can't be in the photos if you're the one taking the picture. So I became the family photographer. There are still enough photos of me to make sure I get my face on at least 10 out of 12 months of the Christmas calendar (Mixbook.com), but I make sure they're head shots. I shudder whenever someone takes a photo of my whole body, and usually crop it out of the photo as soon as possible.

I also avoid seeing my whole reflection in mirrors, focusing on whatever body part I'm dealing with (usually face, teeth, hair...). When I'm walking by large store windows I focus on the models within, rather than my image reflected from the glass. I never try new clothes on in dressing rooms before buying - I just return them after I've tried them on at home. In that way I have happily maintained my own ignorance of the true size of my body.

Except that's not true. When asked to estimate my own weight I'm usually within 10 pounds, startling the hell out of health professionals who uniformly believe overweight people have no true understanding of their situation. Although I routinely refused to be weighed when being seen by doctors (that public humiliation thing I covered yesterday), I have lived with this body my whole life and am aware of what wearing various sizes mean in terms of total weight.

In other words, I know how big I am but avoid like the plague seeing the proof of the pudding, as it were, with my own two eyes. Kind of the way I want the world to deal with me too. You can know I'm a plump (fat), middle-aged (old), charmer (woman), just don't see me that way. I'd rather you 'saw' me as my young, beautiful, healthy self in my eighteen year old body.

Of course, doesn't everybody?

I don't know if I'm going to talk myself into a 'before' photo or not. I'll let you know tomorrow.

Vanity, or Sanity?

QUESTIONING BARIATRIC SURGERY
 
I used to walk into my doctor's office with my hand raised defensively. "Let's just start with the assumption that I need to lose weight, and move on from there." She would laugh, and we'd begin discussing my reason for being there.

I have long held the opinion that doctor offices psychologically attack patients to ensure a greater adherence to medical advice. They do it by stopping in the hallway, invariably full of foot traffic, to weigh and measure you on a full-sized scale. Textbook perfect Public Humiliation 101.

I've never known what it's like to maintain a healthy weight. It's been a continuing issue for freakin' forever. Diets and exercise programs have been intermittent interruptions throughout my life. Sometimes they are a resounding backdrop to other memories, like when I sucked in my tummy so hard my diaper fell off.

My self-esteem took the expected plummet, relieved only during the most successful stages of dieting episodes. I've never received so many compliments and/or so much praise as I have when I've lost weight. So many, in fact, it made me resentful.

Why didn't I get compliments like that for other achievements? I have been a storyteller for decades, performing before groups large and small, done community theater, been an award winning teacher, written an award winning novel, and yet the only time my friends and family seem proud of me was when I was thinner. Which never lasted long. (By the way, I know this is only my perception and that my friends, and some of my family, are very proud of me and my accomplishments. But knowing, and feeling, can be two vastly different experiences.)

Sometime in the second or third month following a successful weight loss diet an overwhelming craving would crash over me. If you've never felt it you won't understand this, but it is an absolute imperative that you eat. Your mind focuses on food, and only food. You find yourself wandering in and out of the kitchen, grabbing a taste of this, or a handful of that. You hate yourself for losing control, and yet the body grabs you by the throat and screams in your face, "No more starving!" Then it gets your belly to emphasize the point with a lot of uncomfortable roiling and loud rumbling.

I've yo-yo'd up and down so many times I've lost count. I've been a size 11 and I've been a size 26. One time I bought a size 32, but I think that was sheer frustration that I couldn't find anything to make me look attractive and bought something three sizes too big in a flood of self-loathing. I've done Weight Watchers (twice), the egg and grapefruit diet, Phen-phen, low-carb, 7-day diet, oatmeal and apples diet, etc., etc., etc. I counted points, collected cards, and plotted food charts.

Any diet will work, as long as you stick to it fiercely. In my experience that means a combination of severe self-loathing, determination, and acceptance of pain. It takes a lot of hurting to make you turn away from food while you're still hungry. To refuse yourself a feeling of satiation involves embracing discomfort, and to continue that unpleasant feeling for days, weeks, and months requires (from me, at least) a hatred for my fat self. It's not enough to want to be thin - I have to hate to be fat.

I beat myself up (dieted) regularly for the first thirty years of my life, and over the following twenty-eight still do so, but with longer and longer intervals between. The last two diets I started with reluctance,  knowing I would succeed, be happy with myself for a few months at least, and then begin the inevitable regaining of the weight and accompanying self-loathing. I did, two for two.

I've lost all faith in low calorie, nonfat, low self-esteem diets. How many times do I have to repeat the cycle before I admit it doesn't work? Apparently, this many times.

I am scheduled for a Roux en-y operation on December 15th. It's taken me over a year to get to this place, but I've finally arrived at the starting gate. Today I have begun the two week liquid diet required before surgery. I'm already hungry, but hopeful that at the end of this journey I'll be able to lose - and keep off - the baggage I've been lugging around my entire life. I'm ready to cut away more than half my stomach to control my eating.

People say to me, "As long as it's for the right reasons..." meaning it should be a health only decision. Mine is, and isn't, but more about that later. Being me I need to chronicle this journey. I'll let you know how it goes.

Wish me luck.

Wicked Lover or Death Disguised?

SOMETHING AUTUMN THIS WAY COMES

It's the end of September and the seasons are changing. The days of summer are over, and autumn has begun. It's that time of year when I look for my favorite blanket to put on the bed, pull out long sleeve shirts and hoodies, and enjoy the warmth of my favorite socks.

I see bats and skeletons everywhere, and deal with pumpkin-flavored everything. I bake banana bread and chicken pot pie. The last of my wife's garden become fried green tomatoes. Apple Pie and Cinnamon candles fill our living room with the scents of the season.

The biggest sign I've given over to autumn are my favorite pair of earrings, hand painted ceramic pumpkins I bought in Pismo Beach about 30 years ago. I love them. They are pretty, heavy, and large. People comment on them every year, and I love it. I wear them with the brown, wine, and gold colors I only wear during this time of year.

Winding into, through, and around the cities are the scents of dusty leaves, plowed under fields, ripe apple orchards, and chilling lakes. My wife rakes the yard, beds the roses, and cleans out her garage in preparation for the inevitable snow. My granddaughter begins to seriously consider Halloween costumes, which she will decide upon with the help of her best friends so they can coordinate. I pull out my well worn, tattered, and beloved Ray Bradbury classic, The October Country, and Poe's Telltale Heart, and read them aloud in an empty room simply for the love of the words.

The prompts I bring to writing groups take on a decidedly spooky tone.

When people talk about the changing of the seasons they mean weather and over all temperature, but to me it means much more. For my wife, who thrives during spring and summer, it's the inevitable end of good times in the garden and sun. She mourns in autumn. I, on the other hand, come vibrantly alive.

I thrill to the changing colors, encourage the struggle of each leaf to last as long as possible, await the rising of large harvest moons, and watch the night sky for shooting stars. I look forward to preparing for Halloween, NANO, and Thanksgiving. Most of all, I look forward to being cool for the brief time in Minnesota between blistering heat, and freezing snow.

So here's to autumn, and all those who love her.

Pretty Weird

Writing books for middle graders, teens, and young adults growing up in families headed by same-sex parents is a wonderful experience. I meet a lot of great people, hear a lot of fantastic stories, and every now and then I get to make a difference in someone's life.

When young people see their own type of families reflected in the literature they read, lives can be changed. It provides a sense of self-esteem that even the most loving, caring, and supportive parents cannot.

We hear about the kids who get bullied because they are, or are perceived to be, LGBTQI themselves. But it's not too often that we hear about the kids being raised by LGBTQI parents being harassed at school and on the internet, which also happens every single day of the year.

These kids often feel especially picked on because if they were growing up with hetero/cisgendered parents they would not be subjected to this type of harassment. Of course, that's not to say that they wouldn't still be bullied. We all know that bullies will identify whatever you are sensitive about to torment you. (And if you didn't know that, take my word for it.)

But when kids see their own rainbow families represented in fiction it validates their homes as being just as normal as anyone else's. Unless, of course, your house has been painted in rainbow colors, because, well, that's pretty weird. Pretty and weird, and wouldn't I love to have one!

Rita Mae Brown, Dorothy Allison, Lee Lynch, and I Walked Into A Ballroom....

I spent last week far away from wife and home in New Orleans, Louisiana. I did it because my book, Riding the Rainbow, was a finalist in the 2015 Golden Crown Literary Award in the YA category.

Due to situations beyond our control, our income is limited. I had not planned on attending when I first found out about Riding making it to the finalist short list. I was disappointed, but what can you do? Kids need feeding, the mortgage needs paying, etc.. ad nauseam. I figure I'd prepare an acceptance speech, just in case, and ask a friend to accept for me if the long shot paid off.

I didn't expect to win. There are some very high profile lesbian authors whose books were also on the finalist list, all of them from publishing companies like Bold Stroke Books, Sapphire Books, Bella Books, and other notable publishers. At the time it was nominated, Riding the Rainbow was self-published. I figured among the glittering lesbian literati my little book would be lost.

Then I was contacted by GCLS and offered a last minute scholarship because someone else had dropped out. I talked it over with my wife, we checked the piggy bank, and off I went on a wish and a prayer.

I had a marvelous time attending panels and giving a short reading from A Man's Man, my newest YA release. I was stunned to tears by the power of Dorothy Allison's reading from her classic, Bastard Out of Carolina. I was impressed by the friendliness of the conference board members, and enjoyed meeting and making new friends. One night another author treated me to dinner at Muriel's, a notoriously haunted restaurant, followed by paranormal authors reading from their work. I looked for ghosties, but couldn't find any. I was so entertained I didn't worry about the award, at least until Friday night.

That night I tossed and turned, fighting off an unnamed fear. I couldn't sleep, and dragged my way through the morning, fighting off tears I couldn't explain. I was afraid of losing, sure. But I also seemed to be afraid of winning. Friends tried to buck me up, but no matter what words they used, how hard or long they hugged me, I couldn't shake a feeling of paralyzing fear. I was so tense, that only an hour and a half before the Awards Presentation began I lifted something too heavy for me and twisted my back.

I struggled through a shower I couldn't stand straight in, and lay down on the bed to wait for the Advil I took to kick in. I phoned my wife, who soothed my ragged nerves and reminded me that in her eyes I've always been a winner. By the time I hung up my back was looser, I was calmer, and I could dress in my special outfit carefully chosen for the occasion.

I sat at a table with new friends, enjoying the festivities. My heart beat loudly in my chest as the YA category neared, but I'd prepared myself to graciously lose. I drank a glass of wine, prepped my cell phone's camera to capture the screen shot of my book's cover when it was announced, and surreptitiously crossed my fingers under the table.

When the presenters in my category announced, "...Riding the Rainbow by Genta Sebastian!" my table erupted with cheers and everyone jumped up from their seats. I stumbled up to the stage and realized that seated directly in front of me sat - are you ready for this? RITA MAE BROWN, DOROTHY ALLISON, and LEE LYNCH. If I hadn't already been as nervous as it is possible for me to be short of fainting, I would have lost my voice then and there. Thank goodness I didn't.

I gave my acceptance speech, stumbled off stage with my very heavy award, and made my way back to my table of friends. The rest of the evening was a surreal experience.

It was a night I will never forget. And I learned some very important things from all of this:

1.  My wife is my rock, my center, and my strength, no matter how many miles separate us.
2.  The fear of winning is almost as powerful as the fear of losing.

and 3. Winning awards is totally addicting.

My Very First Time

Everyone has a first time. The nervous anticipation, the gnawing fear, the worry that you won't be up to standards, much less excel. Let's face it folks, virginity can be a problem. Arggh! It's enough to make you speak like a pirate! (Which would be another first time, but I digress...)

This week I set off on one of the grand adventures of my life. I recognize it for what it is, even before it's begun. This will be something I will remember for a long time, and hopefully bring memories to cherish.

On Monday I set off on a cross country road trip with two other women, both also virgins. On Tuesday we will arrive in New Orleans, a big first for me right there, but no, that's not the culmination of the grand adventure. Although it's on my Bucket List, and therefore significant to me, The Big Easy is only the first leg of this fantastic journey.

I'm going to take you with me. We'll barge the gates of the GCLS (Golden Crown Literary Society) Convention 2015. I will take pictures and share them here, first covering the country from Wisconsin to Louisiana, and then the convention itself. I will share some of my fabulous experiences, in and out of the Hilton hotel, through various panels, hopefully to a haunted reading, a masquerade karaoke party, and the grand finale: the Awards dinner where my Riding the Rainbow might just win a coveted Goldie.

So c'mon along on my magic carpet ride. I'll take you, koo koo ka-choo, through the looking glass of a GCLS Con Virgin, and safely out the other side... maybe.

There is that haunted house in the French Quarter... buwahahahaha!