A Second Chance at Life

When people are losing weight, there are pleasures that come from being able to do certain everyday things they weren't able to do before.  Those activities are a kind of benchmark of the progress that has been made.  One of my personal favorites is when I travel on a plane.

In my former 350-pound life, flying was the most miserable experience, for me and undoubtedly for the people around me.  Trying to squish into the little airline seats, not being able to buckle the seatbelt without cutting off the blood supply to my legs, spilling over into the seat of the annoyed slim person beside me -- the whole thing was an exercise in humiliation, shame and discomfort.

Not anymore.  My days of trying to cram myself inconspicuously against the window, watching while the look of dread crossed the face of the unlucky flyer who had the misfortune of being seated next to me are over.  These days I can stride confidently onto the plane, slide gracefully into my seat, buckle the seatbelt with 6-10 inches of belt to spare -- whoo hoo!  And I can smile sweetly at the lucky duck who gets to sit next to my sparkly personality, which is the ONLY part of me that is spilling beyond the borders of my airline seat!

But... I am not so far from those days that I have forgotten the agony.  So Wednesday, when I was flying back from my scouting trip, I felt lot of compassion toward the morbidly obese woman who was seated in my row.  She had to use a seat extender because she couldn't fasten the belt.  She refused any beverages or snacks, and I suspect at least part of the reason was that there was no way she could have put the seat back tray down because her abdomen extended within inches of it.  At one point, I glanced down at her feet.  She was wearing flip flops, her feet so swollen that no standard shoe would have fit.  Her toes were barely visible beneath the folds of flesh.  She was stuffed mercilessly into the seat, trying to push against the wall and window while still holding her Kindle, her arm propped up on her stomach.

She wore a very cute outfit and gorgeous jewelry, had impeccable make-up and really pretty layered, highlighted hair.  But I doubt many people noticed those things.

When she got off the plane, she managed the short walk off the aircraft and then plopped down heavily onto the waiting wheelchair.  All I could think was, but for the grace of God, there go I.  And I wanted so desperately to help her, to tell her that it's not too late, that there is hope.

If I can leave that piece for a moment.... my grandmother died in January of 2010.  In December, my dad called me to tell me that she was in the hospital and that "it wasn't looking good".  My daughter and I flew home that very afternoon, and I went straight to the hospital.  Grandma rallied, and I actually spent some wonderful and precious time with her during that trip.  But in particular I remember being in her hospital room with my Aunt Cheryl and my cousin, Dawn, when the doctor came in with the diagnosis.  I think my cousin Andrew and my Auntie Essie might have been there, too.

The doctor told us that grandma's cancer was now in the lining of her lungs.  He went on to say that they would do everything they could to keep her comfortable.  The rest of us sat there, not really absorbing what he was saying.  Grandma got it.  In her calm and pragmatic way, she said, "So what you're saying is that I am dying." 

The doctor made a "It's as you have said" gesture. Grandma knew.  The family, not so much.  The next two months (the final two of her life) were a heroic effort on the part of everyone to feed Grandma cancer-fighting, uber-healthy foods, vitamins and herbal remedies, all in an effort to improve her state enough that she might even be able to tolerate more chemo and extend her time with us. 

Grandma had lived 86 years of a beautiful, loving, fulfilling life of contribution.  She was at peace, but we wanted more of her.  She was a paragon of everything we valued, loved and held true, and we wanted to preserve it. She succumbed to the cancer on January 6, 2010.

Likewise, when my mother was deteriorating this past year, we put her on hospice (still somehow believing that this was maintenance more than end-of-life care).  In August, the care facility called me to tell me they thought her fever and other symptoms were caused by her beginning the process of "active dying" rather than an infection or other ailment. When a patient is on hospice, they receive comfort care, but are not given what are considered life-prolonging treatments.  That means, for example, they are not sent to the hospital or given CPR when life-threatening symptoms present. 

I, as Mom's healthcare power of attorney, chose not to revoke her hospice and send her to the hospital, in large part because I felt that her MS and dementia had made her quality of life such that it was cruel to force her, through the wonders of modern medicine, to keep holding on.  ("For what?" was the question I kept asking myself.)

Nonetheless, a week later when I was sitting beside her bed mere hours before her death, the confidence in my decision left me.  I sat, listening to her death rattle, singing, talking, reading to her -- anything I could think of, but my mind was racing.  Maybe if we gave her a super-antibiotic...maybe a respirator... maybe we could still reverse the dying process... maybe, maybe, maybe.  She passed away that evening, August 15, 2012.

Which brings me back to the woman on the plane.  I know these all seem disjointed.  I was telling Adam about all of it, tears streaming down my face, trying to connect my thoughts.  He very wisely pointed out that the connector may be the will to survive and not wanting to accept death.  "There is a reason they call it morbid obesity, Jenn," he said.  True that.   I know for sure that I was not really living at 350 pounds. 

Ways I couldn't live at 350 pounds:

1. I didn't like to be outside in the summer because I couldn't tolerate any heat.
2. I couldn't enjoy festivals or amusement parks because I couldn't fit on the rides and I tired so easily from walking.
3. I couldn't hike up to any vistas during road trips.
4. I couldn't relax in a hot bath because I couldn't "fit" in the bathtub.
5. I couldn't lie on my back to relax because my "chins" cut off my airway.
6. I couldn't really enjoy sex or intimacy.
7. When my daughter was an infant, I couldn't nurse her well because my stomach was too big to hold her against me.
8. My back, hips, knees and ankles hurt all the time.
9. I had trouble playing the piano or doing crafts because my hands were so puffy and my fingers were so fat.
10.  All my thoughts centered around my weight, my body, and what I was going to eat or not eat.
11.  I had high blood pressure, metabolic syndrome, thyroid problems, pre-diabetes and sleep apnea.
12.  I struggled with simple tasks like fastening my bra, walking up a flight of stairs, tying my shoes, even wiping myself (I know..eww!).

And probably the worst of all...
13. Aislynn is my one and only miracle child, and it is very likely that my inability to have any other children was due mostly to the weight I carried on my body.  She is an only child and will never have siblings because I couldn't overcome my food addiction and eating problems during my child-bearing years.

So I think Adam is onto something - like someone who has cheated death and been given a second chance, I want so badly to help others who are in my situation... to see them with their own second chance at living. My brother Matt pointed out that a lot of times, how we behave in relation to others really comes back to ourselves.  I mean, Grandma was at peace -- we were the ones who wanted to extend the joy of her in our lives.  With my mom, I knew -- knew -- inside that she had long left a life worth living, and yet in her last hours I wanted her to stay for my own sake.

And maybe my feelings about the woman on the plane are also based in part on the very real fear and anxiety I have that without vigilance and daily attention and constant goals, I could return to that half-life, half-death existence I had created for myself.  That makes sense, because my other prevailing thought throughout the flight was, "I need to get home and get on my bike!"

I want to live and live well.  And maybe when I figure it all out and reach my final health goals, I can help others do the same.

Thanks, blog.