NaBlogWriMo 6 & 7: One Stent Up, Two Stones Back

Yup, actually installed in my body.

I started this intending to talk a little about my most recent bout with kidney stones. The most frustrating thing (for me, anyway) about kidney stones is that they are mostly preventable. Even though they are noted as a potential side effect of bariatric surgery, avoidance is simple: adequate hydration. Every time this happens to me, as I moan and groan and wait for things to start flowing again, a single thought occurs to me: “Did I hydrate enough today?”

And the answer, invariably, is “NO.”

But, as I told the story, it kept growing. And growing. And growing some more.

Thus, the tale that was supposed to be produced last Friday spent 3 days being written instead. It is now longer than some short stories I have created.

So, get yourself comfortable, and check your squeamishness about bodily functions at the door.

A Painful Burning Sensation

Our tale begins back on July 6 of 2018. On our way home from a family visit in Santa Fe, I noticed a mild pain in my back. I didn’t worry too much about it – I had just spent the last 4 days in the car, courtesy of the 4th of July holiday.

As it turns out, I should have worried about it.

All day long, the pain increased, and no amount of stretching would alleviate it. As the pain worsened that evening, it occurred to me that I might have a bigger problem. I hadn’t urinated once, all day.

This continued for the next 48 hours.

Finally, during a visit to the dentist’s office, the real pain struck. That oh so familiar sensation, like an ice pick being shoved through the abdomen. I had developed another kidney stone. (Though, in hindsight, not going to the bathroom for two days probably should have been a clue.)

The visit to urgent care that evening wasn’t great. The PA on duty asked me to identify where my kidneys were. After I was able to do so correctly, he chewed me out for not coming in sooner. “Are you trying to rupture a kidney?” he asked. I hadn’t even been aware that this was a thing I should be worried about.

You can bet I was worried now, though.

He injected me with a mild muscle relaxer and told me that if the no-flow problem hadn’t corrected itself overnight that I was to report to the Emergency Room.

At 7 AM the next day, I was among the first in line.

The Hospital House of Horrors

In one sense, I feel bad for the folks that work the local emergency room. They have to work insanely long shifts dealing with the dregs of humanity.

On the other hand, this can leave them with a certain, shall we say, “casual” approach to tending to legitimate patients like myself.

I will admit that reporting that I hadn’t urinated in three days got me through the initial triage stage pretty quickly. But, after being placed on a bed in the back…nothing happened. For hours. A nurse came by and told me that someone would be by shortly to administer some pain meds. This became a familiar refrain as a parade of nurses, nurse’s aides, and even a couple of EMTs all promised to produce medication to deal with the agonizing waves of pain that were now emanating from every point of my body south of my chest.

After several hours of this, I finally pounced (metaphorically) on the next nurse that happened by, and I asked for a catheter. This might have been the point where they started taking me seriously. Probably not too many requests for one of those in the average day.

For those that don’t know, a catheter involves taking a flexible hose, about half the size of a normal drinking straw, and inserting it into your body. Yup, right through the aperture that your urine normally flows through. I can feel you wincing from here. I can assure you, it feels even worse than you are thinking it does.

Unfortunately, even this drastic remedy provided no relief. I could tell the nurse was deeply suspicious when she got it implanted and almost nothing flowed out the other end. I could hear her thinking: “Have I just inherited one of those people who enjoy being in pain?” She promised me drugs (again) and then vanished.

A few more hours went by. During this time, I was now in pain both internally (from the kidney stones), and externally (from the catheter, which I remain convinced was a veterinary version designed to be put into livestock, and not designed for the human body.) Lor literally had to talk me out of removing the thing myself.

At last, someone showed up to haul me off to the Imaging department. They were going to MRI me to find out just what the heck was going on internally. I thought this would bring relief.

I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Under The Microscope

I could tell that things weren’t going to go well when I got parked outside the door to Imaging. The person pushing my hospital bed was bitterly complaining to someone on the phone about what an asshole her boyfriend/spouse/SO was while we waited. When my turn came, she rolled me into the room, being sure to hit every single bump and corner in the hallway. Considering even breathing was painful at this point, this did nothing for my mental state.

But the coup de grace came as I was transferred from my bed to the MRI slab. Undoubtedly frustrated with all things male, my technician tried to “help” me move faster from bed to machine. In doing so, she managed to pinch the hose of my catheter between the rolling bed and the immobile MRI machine. She then yanked me across from one platform to the other.

I moved, the catheter hose did not.

By the time she sorted out what had occurred, I was literally lying on the MRI weeping in pain. She rolled the bed away, readjusted the hose, and walked out of the room, her vengeance upon the male half of the species accomplished. No apology was forthcoming.

By the time I got back to the emergency room, I was ready to just die and get it over with. I did finally get an assigned nurse, who also promised me drugs. She agreed to remove the catheter from my bruised and battered equipment, wincing when I told her the story about my experience in Imaging.

More hours passed.

Size Matters

That evening, a full 11 hours after I checked myself in, a Doctor appeared.

“Guess you’re not feeling too good, eh?” he asked jovially. I agreed that, indeed, I was not. “Well, there’s a reason! You’ve got a big ol’ kidney stone. 10 centimeters. We’re going to try to schedule you for emergency surgery tonight. In the meantime, I’ve approved you for all the pain meds you want. You must be miserable.”

With that, he left. I was so deliriously happy at the potential application of endless morphine that it took me several minutes before I processed what he had said.

…10 centimeters…?

I was pretty sure I was remembering my metric conversion correctly but wasn’t an inch equivalent to 2.5 centimeters?

Did I really have a kidney stone FOUR INCHES in diameter stuck in my piping somewhere?

I asked Lor for my phone. Puzzled, she handed it over to me. I called the only person who I knew would assist me.

“Dad,” I said when he answered the phone, “they’ve just told me I have a 10 cm kidney stone. If they tell me that they want me to PASS this thing, I need you to take me out behind the barn and shoot me.”

My father solemnly agreed to do so and added that he and my mother were on their way to the hospital now.

Metric Fractions

While my hospital room began filling with family members, I was visited by my nurse and a nurse’s aide. They were astonished by my doctor’s diagnosis. They rummaged around on the computer system and returned with a couple of pieces of news.

The good news: my doctor misspoke. The “stone” was 10 MILLIMETERS, not centimeters.

The bad news: 10 millimeters is still the size of a bullet for a good sized handgun. There was no way it was going to pass on its own. I would, indeed, have to have surgery.

More bad news: my doctor had sort of buried the lead while raving over the size of the kidney stone. Turns out I had STONES (multiple), not a single one. I had a 10mm one blocking the ureter on one side. Then, there was a 4mm stone actually stuck in the ureter on the other side.

No wonder I hadn’t been able to move any fluids for nearly three days.

Since I now had free access to all the drugs I wanted, I will admit that the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur for me. I was finally taken back for surgery about 11 PM. After admitting myself to the ER at 7 AM, mind you. Later on, in recovery, I was convinced that my Urologist said they had only removed one stone. Must’ve been the drugs, right?

Wrong. They really had only removed one of the two stones – the smaller one. I would have to set up an appointment to have the other one taken care of.

The Gift That Kept On Giving

In the meantime, they had left me with a special present…a device called a “stent”. This involves jamming latex tubing up through your ureters in order to keep them open and to assist in passing any smaller particulate that might be trying to come through.

It also leaves you with a (no shit) length of fishing line emerging from the same aperture your urine flows through. The end of the line is then taped around your gear, so you don’t “accidentally” remove it.

The problem? The tape had been applied inexpertly. I had what looked like half a roll of scotch tape wrapped around me half a dozen times, pinning the fishing line in place. Unfortunately, they had not given me enough slack in the line. Every time I shifted position, it yanked my equipment this way and that. I’ve heard of men being led around by their penises, but this was ridiculous.

I asked my long-suffering wife to fix this after we finally made it home. She took one look at the situation and went looking for scissors. After she calmed me down and reassured me that she was not preparing to amputate, she told me what had happened. Apparently, the surgical staff had not bothered, umm, “cleaning up” the area before they applied the rolls of tape. Consequently, I had bunches of pubic hair all gathered up in the rolls of tape along with the fishing line.

10 minutes and a trim later, I was finally no longer being yanked to and fro. I put myself back together, and we headed off to the pharmacy to get the supply of pain meds that would have to tide me over until my next surgery. Which had not even been scheduled yet, by the way.

You Can’t Haz No Drugs

Because the surgical gods were still not smiling upon me, there was another issue. A big one. The pharmacy would not fill my prescription.

It seems that the urologist who performed my emergency stone-ectomy, (OK, fine, it is referred to as a “lithotripsy.”) was NOT licensed in the state of New Mexico. He was a recent transplant from Arizona and had not completed his licensure requirements here.

The upshot of this was that they would not fill my prescription whatsoever. I was going to have to suffer in stoic silence through the next several weeks until my second lithotripsy.

I considered suffering in silence beautiful. For about 30 seconds. Then I busted out my medical marijuana card and had Lor drive me to the closest dispensary.

Thank God for medical marijuana is all I have to say. The same substance that assists me with seizure control was about to keep me from being in unending pain for the next three weeks. After trying (and failing) to keep straight faces after I told them the whole story, the budtenders at R. Greenleaf had mercy on me. They set me up with a vaporizer loaded with a strain designed for folks suffering from intractable pain and sent me home.

The Stone and The Stent

And there I sat, for the next three weeks. Completely baked, on my couch, craving Cheetos and Oreos. Every time I could feel the pain emanating from either my stone or my stent I would self-medicate again.

It is entirely possible that I smoked more weed in that three-week period than I had consumed in my entire adult life leading up to that point.

My doctors had informed me that I would get used to the stent in a day or so. My doctors lied. I never stopped being in pain from the installation of miles of latex tubing shoved into my urinary tract. When combined with the irregular pulses of pain from the over-large kidney stone, I was not sure I would make it to the procedure to have them both removed.

As it turns out, I only got to have one removed. The second lithotripsy went smoothly, but I was dismayed to discover that I would be leaving with the thrice-damned stent STILL INSTALLED.

Turns out I would have to wait another week before I could remove that horrible, horrible stent.

Before,  I removed, you ask? Oh, yes. After your recovery period, you are told to grab that nasty line emerging from your equipment and yank it out yourself.

I thought that the day could not come fast enough. When it finally arrived, I self-medicated, covered Lor’s massage table with old ruined sheets, and assumed the position. Lor, as fascinated as always with anything involving human physiology, offered to assist. I declined. She settled in to observe instead.

The Never-Ending Latex

Thus, my journey toward freedom from the stent began. I pulled. It hurt. I pulled some more. It hurt even more. I kept on yanking, tears streaming down my face. I went through my entire vocabulary of curse words and began inventing new ones. And still, the thing wouldn’t come out.

I had started to wonder if another error had been made. Did the surgical team leave behind a spool of fishing line inside my kidney? But, finally, a piece of latex tubing emerged. This, then, was the stent, apparently. I was maybe halfway there. I kept crying and pulling. The pile of fishing line and latex just kept growing.

Meanwhile, Lor was so fascinated by the process that she kept leaning closer and closer to watch this never-ending stream of plastic emerging from my body. When I finally reached the end of the procedure she was probably only a foot from where the extraction was taking place.

At last, with a final exhausting tug, I pulled the last of the 24 inches of stent out of my body. (No exaggeration – we measured it. See the photo above if you want proof.) As it emerged, however, a back wave of urine that had been clogging the pipes behind it emerged in a manner not unlike a fire hose.

I did mention that Lor was only about a foot away at this point, yes?

As I sat there panting from the effort, Lor stood there dripping and blinking. “I suppose I should have anticipated that,” she said, and she wandered off to the bathroom to clean up.

TL;DR (Too Long, Didn’t Read)

I had multiple kidney stones. It hurt. I cried. Multiple surgeries were performed. I got stoned. Lor got wet. The end.

But, seriously, if you take nothing else away from this, take this piece of wisdom:

STAY HYDRATED.

Catch you all tomorrow,

  • Jeremy

The Silence of Success

No, really, I am alive. Honestly.

And I don’t mean to shut everyone out, either.

But Misdirected is going through an identity crisis. Let me tell you about it.

What To Say And When Not To Say It

So, the last few months have been insane. I’ve been through two surgeries (Bad.) Tomorrow is the 1 year anniversary of the release of Inheritance (Good.) Lor and I just celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary (Totally, stupendously good.) And we’ve just gone through a major disappointment in our personal lives that has left us both completely fragmented (Very, very, totally, bad.)

And what, you might ask, does any of that have to do with weight loss, bariatric surgery, or lifestyle changes?

Not a darn thing, that’s what. Welcome to my problem.

The 30-second Update

A not insignificant number of people have asked: “What the heck is happening in your weight loss journey?” “Why don’t you talk about it anymore?”

So, for those looking for the update, here it is. As of this morning, I weigh 177 pounds. I am in a 34/36 inch waistline pant (depending on the manufacturer.) My resting heart rate is at 58 bpm, and my blood pressure is right around 120/80.

If those numbers sound at all familiar, its because they are the same numbers I talked about a year ago.

So, how am I doing this?

I am on a carb restricted diet of 60 grams of carbs a day. I drink between 64 and 128 ounces of water a day. I perform moderate exercise for 30 minutes or more at least 5 days a week.

So, yeah. Nothing has changed there either.

Do you begin to see my problem?

The Forum Fallacy

I have always been very suspicious of reviews of any kind on online bulletin boards or forums. The reason for my suspicion is simple: Only pissed-off people write on forums.

When everything is working correctly, no one bothers talking about it.

It is only when things go completely pear-shaped that people get riled up enough to talk about their experience. No one ever says that “Windows 10 is perfect and works perfectly 10/10.” No, only the people who want to say something like “Windows is garbage bill gates is the devil I am only giving this 1 star because I can’t give it negative umpty-quintillion” bother getting online to vent.

Without negativity, there is no drama. And, as a fiction writer, I can assure you: drama is what sells.

So…is Misdirected still a website about my struggles and experiences with weight loss when there is no struggle to report?

It bears thinking about.

Opening The Closet Door

Now, mind you, I’ve used Misdirected to talk about other things. Epilepsy, family issues, Depression…all have gone under the microscope from time to time. But at the end of the day, I am supposed to be chatting about obesity and weight loss.

And I simply have not had much to say recently.

I could, of course, prop open the closet door a little wider and let some of the other skeletons out into the light. But, seriously…is “Hi, I am Jeremy, and this is my life” really what visitors are looking for?

30,000+ monthly visitors on Pinterest tell me the answer to that is a resounding “No!” My #1 page on Misdirected is about working out after bariatric surgery. Close behind it is a page about post-surgery eating. Those two pages get thousands of views a month. That is what people come here looking for.

So, I have been quietly and methodically determining my next move. And, while I dither, the place has gone dark.

Turning The Lights Back On

So, with all that said, I will do my best to come up with a solution quickly. I may invite guest authors to share their experiences. I may design some new menus or exercise routines since those subjects seem to be very popular.

In the meantime, if you are struggling with your own journey through weight loss, remember that I am always happy to talk with you about your experiences. My email box is always open. Being part of a community is the #1 thing you can do to achieve your goals. That applies to most things in life, by the way, not just weight loss.

And, if you happen to have any bright ideas about the Misdirected transition, man, I would love to hear them. Some days I am inches away from throwing my hands in the air and returning to writing about video games.

At least then I would have something to talk about, right?

Looking For Drama,

  • Jeremy

 

Fighting Off The Food Coma

Fighting Off The Food Coma

The time has come, the season has arrived: The Holidays are here. And along with the family gatherings, football games, and presents will come a whole lot of opportunities to do Bad Things to your diet and your physique.

How bad? Well, the average person will gain 3 to 7 pounds over the 40-day period from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day. Do that ten years in a row, and congratulations: you’ve added around 50 pounds of body mass from holiday eating alone. Never mind aging, injury, or other dietary hiccups that might arise.

So, yeah – this presents a problem.

What are you going to do about it?

Watch Your Drinks

If you want to help yourself avoid the potential for damage, first give yourself the ability to succeed. The great majority of the caloric damage at these gatherings doesn’t come from stuffing or Pineapple-Upside-Down Cake.

No, the majority of the empty calories will come from what you drink.

Think about it: how many Cokes will you consume over the course of a holiday gathering? Because each and every one will set you back 140 calories. Worse yet, that 140 calories has ZERO nutritional value to you. No vitamins, no minerals, no protein. Nothing but processed sugar that will go straight to the “Store me as fat, please” list.

Beer isn’t much better. A can of the most popular “Light” beer, Bud Light, works out to 110 calories. Only a few less than a Coke. And the problem with beer is simple: the alcohol impairs your judgement. The more beers you have, the more you think it is OK to have. You could get yourself outside of a six-pack of beer (and the accompanying 660 calories) before you even meet the temptations around the dinner table.

Stick to water, if you can. If not, coffee or unsweetened tea are OK as well. But give yourself the opportunity to succeed. Because you haven’t even gotten to the hard stuff yet.

Rein In The Impulses

I know what you are thinking. “But Jeremy,” you say, “everything is soooo good during the holidays. How can I resist it all?”

Simple. You can’t.

The theoretical person exists that can surround themselves with holiday goodies and not indulge. In the same sense that theoretical alien life exists: it may be out there somewhere, but in the meantime just hand me another slice of that double-chocolate Pecan Pie.

So, if the cornucopia is too much to resist, don’t resist. Direct the flood that you can’t contain.

Instead, try everything in very small doses.

Do you really need a pound of everything on your plate? No, not really. Get a tablespoon-full, or a small slice, or a single item of whatever. Then, as you eat, focus on the folks around you. You probably only see them once or twice a year, right? Take a bite of your small serving of food “A”. Chew thoroughly. Put down your fork and turn to the person to your right and chat about whatever for a moment. Return to your plate. Take a bite of your small serving of food”B”. Chew thoroughly. Put down your fork and turn to the person on your left and chat for a moment.

Repeat this process until you’ve tried everything on your plate. Still hungry? Start around your plate a second time, this time focusing on the items you found particularly yummy.

By the time your stomach tells you “Stop! I’m full!”, you’ll have had a fraction of what everyone else around you did. And you’ll have had some valuable time catching up with friends and family members.

 

A Call To Action

No joke – this technique really works. The reason it works is because your stomach is slow to report to your brain about when it has reached capacity. If you start with a huge pile of food and rush through it, you will reach capacity and pass right through it and not know about it – until you are uncomfortably bloated and nodding off on the couch, wondering how you could have possibly eaten so much. Again. Just like last year.

So, just dodge that bullet. And give yourself some extra tools to use to fight the “Holiday Bloats.”

Another thing you can do to help out? Stay active.

Now, I am not inviting you and your family outside for some brisk snow-field volleyball. (Though if you live in Florida, or California – heck, why not?)  But, seriously, how much fun are you having sitting on the couch watching football? Listening to everyone’s digestive processes?

So, move around instead! Go grab some photo albums and look through them. Volunteer to wash the dishes. Play with the kids or the grand-kids. Even just wandering around the yard (if one is available), or throwing around a football (rather than watching one being thrown.)

Also, is this gathering taking place at Mom and Dad’s? Or Grandma and Grandpa’s? I will bet a significant amount that if this is taking place at the home of an older family member, there are some things lying around the place that could be done. Rake some leaves. Repair a squeaky door. Help organize a library, or a craft room, or a garage. Every minute you spend moving is a minute your body is using fuel, not adding it to long-term storage.

And if you can contribute to a family member at the same time, well: isn’t that what the holidays are all about, really?

Making The Holidays (Not) Count,

Jeremy

PS: I recently had the opportunity to create a guest blog post for the folks at Prairie Sage Wellness Center. Feel free to check it out here!

I Am Officially Certifiable

Ace Personal Trainer Certificate

The rain was drizzling down not unlike Boston or Seattle when we pulled in the driveway last night. We had spent 12 of the last 36 hours in the car and were worn down to nearly nothing. I shuffled over to the front door, unlocked it, then listlessly flopped open the mailbox, only to discover a certificate sized-envelope from ACE Fitness.

I then spent the next ten minutes running around the house in glee, shouting “It’s here! It’s here!”, much to the consternation of the puppies and the exhausted amusement of Lor. Funny, that.

Recognition In An Envelope

I eventually calmed down enough to open the envelope, and was able to spend a few moments basking in the glow of my achievement. There, in my hands, suitable for framing, was my ACE Fitness Personal Trainer Certificate.

You might find my enthusiasm a little odd. I’ve just finished getting my first book published. I’ve spent the last 14 months losing nearly half my body weight. Why all the excitement about a professional certification?

Mainly because I wasn’t sure I could manage to earn the certification.

My novel is very exciting. Losing 130+ pounds has been life-changing. But the certification…it involved using my brain. Extensively. Including parts that don’t work so well anymore – mainly my memory. I can barely remember my own name half the time. And I was supposed to learn enough to get through a 150 question exam? On subjects that I knew almost nothing about?

Remember, I am the guy that flunked out of Biology twice in High School.

So, yeah. This is a really, really big deal for me.

Base Camp Achieved

Let’s take a look back in the rear-view mirror, shall we?

In September of 2015, I was morbidly obese. I weighed almost 300 pounds, and the majority of life was barred from me.

 

In September of last year, I was 2 months out from bariatric surgery. I was down to 224 pounds and was beginning to think that I had achieved my weight loss goals.

And as of last night, I am professionally certified to assist others with their own fitness journeys. How about that?

If the “weight-loss” journey is like climbing a mountain, I can safely say I’ve reached a major base camp before tackling the higher parts of the ascent.

I needed a publisher to get my novel written. I needed an awesome medical team to get me started losing weight. But I had to take that ACE Fitness exam all by myself. With a broken brain, no less.

This achievement was personal.

The Climb Goes Ever Upwards

So, I am a certified professional. Now I am going to start taking on clients and building a practice, right?

Well, no. Not exactly.

I began my CPT training largely due to Misdirected. I kept fielding questions. About diet. Or about exercise. Maybe pertaining to obesity and surgery and genetics and fat-shaming.

And I did my best to answer these questions, I really did. But, anytime someone would ask me what my qualifications were, I would have to say something like “Well, I used to weigh a lot more…”

I realized that I was going to have to expand my scope of knowledge, and in an organized way. Certified education seemed to make the most sense. Since I am mainly dealing with questions about day-to-day life, becoming a personal trainer just made the most sense.

When creating content for Misdirected, I now have the backing of an international organization with 65,000+ healthcare professionals to draw on. I can look through my manuals, check online training, or chat with fellow trainers. I feel much more secure now, creating content from the perspective of a trained professional.

Also, this isn’t the end of my education. My intention all along has been to specialize in working with obese patients, especially those who are looking into or who have just gone through bariatric surgery. There is additional training available for me to broaden my knowledge in those fields. And I will be pursuing it, as time goes by.

A Laser-Like Focus

Also, now that I’ve split my fiction news off to a whole new website at the Ash Falls Gazette, Misdirected can get back to what it does best. We will return to exclusively focusing on weight loss, exercise, diet, and the occasional “this is my life” post. Many of you have requested that change, and here it is.

I am very excited to have made it this far with all of you! I look forward to our continued growth as a weight-loss and lifestyle change resource for you.

We’ll see you here next week. To stay plugged in throughout the week, remember to follow us on Twitter @tjschofield or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/tjeremyschofield.

Keep Putting One Foot In Front Of The Other,

Jeremy C. Schofield

ACE Certified Professional Trainer

 

One-Seventy-Nine

Regain. It is a word that strikes terror into the hearts of bariatric patients. An admission that things have not gone as planned, regain means that the changes after surgery have gone off the rails. Regain feels like a failure, and it carries the bitter taste of defeat.

Oh, How Dramatic

All this introduction to explain what flashed through my mind yesterday morning, when I stepped on my scale for my weekly weigh-in, and saw the numbers “179.4” flash up at me. Alarmed, I stepped off the scale. I moved the scale, made sure it was level. Gingerly, I tried again. “179.6.” Yikes! Maybe I wasn’t stepping on the scale exactly in the center. I tried a third time, carefully placing my feet this time. “179.3.”

Thank goodness I wasn’t using the logging feature built into the scale. It would have thought I had weighed in for 3 separate weeks in less than 60 seconds.

Then again…there was a reason I wasn’t using the logging feature, wasn’t there? All week long I had been feeling the malaise. I knew I didn’t feel right. All my shiny new clothes were just a bit too snug.  My suspicion was that I was moving backwards, and now here was proof, glaring at me from the bathroom floor.

Drama. I am making a mountain out of a molehill here, right? Compared to my all-time low a few weeks back of 174 pounds, 179 isn’t that bad, is it?

Yes…and no. The problem is that last week I was at 177, a gain of two pounds from the previous weigh-in. That number I wrote off as statistical variance – you can gain and lose a couple pounds over the course of a day easily. (And this is why it is important to do weekly weigh-ins at the same time every day. Preferably immediately after you wake up.)

But two weeks in a row, both edging upward by a couple pounds? This isn’t statistical variance. This, my friends, is the beginning of a trend.

The Cold Equations

By now, we all know the numbers, right? It all comes back to Resting Metabolic Rate, the number of calories your body burns while sitting around doing not much of anything. If you ingest less than the amount your body needs, you lose weight. If you take in more than your body needs, it gleefully stores the excess as fat.

Diet and exercise, then, are two sides of a balancing act: the weight loss teeter-totter if you will. We eat all day, every day, to provide our bodies with enough energy to keep the vital organs working, to stay upright and moving. But any extra whatsoever will be taken by our treacherous metabolism and stored as fat.

So, we try to go to the gym, to walk, to keep moving somehow to place our bodies into a caloric deficit so that more of that stubborn fat will come off. The body eventually gives up and adjusts, raising the metabolic rate to reflect all this activity.

But, what happens when you slack off at the gym for a couple of weeks because your schedule goes crazy? Without changing your diet to reflect the drop in physical activity?

One-seventy-nine. That’s what happens.

The Non-Alarmist Solution

I freely admit I am being paranoid about this. But I’ve worked pretty darn hard to get here. I’ve had 80% of one of my major organs lopped off, for goodness sake. From walking to running to jumping to lifting heavy objects and putting them down, I have pushed pretty darn hard to get from 302 to 174.

I am not interested in moving backwards.

Now, the last two weeks have been insane, I grant you. My PT certification exam. The publication of my first book. The weekend-long science fiction conference I just attended. I skipped maybe half my gym days. I took some shortcuts in my diet, especially during the Con.

So, now, I get to repair the damage.

This is the point where many of us panic. We freak out over our regain and hit the Big Red Button of diet and exercise changes. We switch to an all protein shake diet. Maybe we try a juice cleanse. We commit to stupid amounts of work at the gym, hoping to undo weeks or months worth of neglect in a few days.

Sadly, it doesn’t work that way. In my case the numbers here are pretty small: I’ve gained about 2.5 pounds a week for two weeks in a row. Happily, I can work on safely losing that amount every week. I can repair the damage in two weeks or so.

Not in a day via a marathon session at the gym. Not in a week by a juice fast. But by taking a safe, methodical approach.

I already know how to exercise every day – I just haven’t done it for two weeks or so. I already know the secret to a healthy diet: buy non-processed foods at a grocery store and prepare them at home. For the next two weeks, if it doesn’t come out of my fridge or my pantry, I don’t eat it. As simple as that.

Resuming The Journey

Success tends to be followed by a downturn of some kind. This is because success requires effort, and effort is tiring. There is nothing wrong with the fact that I have “rested” for a couple of weeks after one of the most stressful periods of my life.

However, I am reminded of a man I know who went through bariatric surgery, trained for a year or so, then ran his first marathon. Six months after the marathon he had regained 30 pounds.

Why? Simple. He took some time off after the marathon (which was fine) and then never started running again (which was NOT fine.)

All backsliding starts with a single step backwards.

Bad habits and lifestyle choices are always waiting for us, at every turn. This is just as true for those who have never had bariatric surgery as for those who have. What you choose to do every morning will determine your success for the weeks and months to come.

And I have another conference coming in only 3 weeks. I’ve got only that long to get my head back in the game. I need to re-develop my discipline, and make sure that the next time I am away from my normal routine for several days that I find ways to incorporate healthy choices.

After all, I don’t want to come back in a month and write an article titled “One-Eighty-Nine.”

I Shudder At The Thought,

Jeremy