Seven Hundred and Thirty Days

It's been two years since my Duodenal Switch.

That's two years of taking vitamins, eating protein, changing outwardly, looking inward, and negotiating social interactions heretofore unknown to me. That's seven hundred and thirty days of following rules, accepting and giving support to others, and celebrating milestones - losing 100 pounds, seeing a "one" as the first number on the scale (instead of a "two" or even - for a short while - a "three"), buying clothing from the same stores as my stylish friends - and even having to buy smaller sizes than them, and going from a size 24 to a size 4.

More important milestones were realized along the way - not having to take a handful of medications for depression, hypertension, and edema, not having to sleep connected to a CPAP machine so I wouldn't stop breathing during the night, not suffering from joint and foot pain with every step I took.

Some will say that I took the easy way out. I won't dispute them. This has been the easiest 146 pounds I've ever lost. But I'll tell you what wasn't easy: the morning of surgery.

I remember wearing two huge hospital gowns, as only one wouldn't have fit. I had to walk from room to room, signing this form or that, having a nervous IV tech put a port in my hand, climbing up on the scale for the last time so the anesthesiologist could do his math. I remember waiting patiently until the moment my name was called to walk to the Operating Room.

A very nice young man was walking with me, ushering me through the Recovery Room - as yet empty, as I was one of the first surgeries of the day - and through a set of double doors. As those doors swung shut, the temperature dropped a good 10 degrees. The hallway was long and gray, and we turned left at the end and walked about 10 yards to one of the operating rooms. I remember thinking that it wasn't too late - I could turn back - but quickly realizing that if I walked out, I'd still be fat and dying the next day.

As the door to the OR opened, I saw the surgical team prepping the room, counting all the shiny sharp implements, buzzing around a huge table swathed in white. One of the nurses helped me off with my gowns, and, naked, I climbed up onto that table and lay on my back while another nurse draped a sheet over my prone form. My arms were fastened on supports perpendicular to my body, and my IV connected. The anesthesiologist asked if I wanted to go out now or wait for the surgeon. Shaking with barely repressed fear, I asked to wait.

My surgeon, a quiet man, walked into the room, looked at my face, and gave me the first smile I'd ever seen from him. He held my hand, told me I'd be fine, and God help me, I believed him. Feeling calm, surrendering my everything to the universe, I put my trust and my life into this man's hands.

He didn't let me down.

On that date, seven hundred and thirty days ago, I faced the hardest decision I've ever made - live or die.

I feel like the life I have now is my reward.