Tuck In Roll

Part V:  Recovery, Week 3.

In light of how the first 2 weeks of recovery went, this 3rd week was downright boring.  (Granted, our standard of boring might be a little different than some.)  I traded my Vicodin for driving privileges, therefore, my life took on a slightly normal spin.  Which brings us to the main focus of week 3.  The horrid, thick, and itchy Velcro girdle. (Dramatic music here:  Duh duh duuuuh.)

I've made reference to the girdle, but when you have tucksticles, a girdle is the least of your concerns.  The girdle is mandatory 24/7 and I'm only allowed to remove it to take a shower.  It squeezes everything in, helps ever so slowly reduce some of the swelling, and overall gives me a sense of security.  (My new stomach scares the crap out of me half the time.)  But last week was Thanksgiving and I'd be seeing friends and family that spanned beyond our inner circle of 6.  You know what that means.  Pants would become mandatory.  And my children rejoiced.

I'm pretty predictable these days.  I'm either sitting in a recliner or lying in bed.  Sometimes I'm wearing pants, usually I'm not.  But regardless of where I am or what I am or am not wearing, there's one thing that sends them bolting from the room in absolute terror.  The loud sound of ripping Velcro.
I'm not the only one who fears my new tummy. 

Although I can unwrap my own stomach, I haven't yet learned the art of rewrapping it tight enough.  Enter Ron.  Again.

And that brings us back to pants.  I didn't own any appropriate ones that fit over my girdle.  That landed he and I in a Women's dressing room at Kohl's together where we could be overheard saying things like:  Lay flatter; This bench is too uncomfortable; Pull it harder; It's not lined up right; It's digging into my thigh and Quit complaining and let me finish! 

And to think my biggest worry was that Security might think my bulky shirt meant I was shoplifting. Silly me. 

Surprisingly, we were still allowed to make a purchase, which thanks to the big fat girdle included two sweat suits...so much for my pre-surgery visions of low rise skinny jeans and festive holiday crop top ensemble.

So how might I attempt to look normal while sporting an obvious abnormality?  I'll resume tanning, of course, because a fresh tan fixes everything. 

Flash to me lying face up in the tanning bed, completely unwrapped and exposed, with my knees bent at awkward angles because I'm still unable to lie flat and fighting panic as I realized I was trapped under a heavy tanning bed lid, coming dangerously close to screaming for the salon owner to break in and let me out. 

You see, sometimes our drama seeps out into the general public.

But recovery wise, we're on the home stretch.  Friday, a burning sensation began coursing through my ab muscles.  More of a post-ab-workout pain than the post-surgery pain I've grown accustomed to.  Then Saturday, things got strange.  I felt a spasm in my stomach that reminded me of something...the familiar feeling of an unborn baby kick from inside. 

Well, wouldn't that be horribly unfortunate timing.

As the spasms increased throughout the day, a word I learned way back in massage school crept out of it's long forgotten place in the attic of my dusty memory.  Synapse:  a junction between two nerve cells, consisting of a minute gap across which impulses pass by diffusion of a neurotransmitter. 

Holy crap.  I think I feel my nerve endings reconnecting.  And low and behold, I'm slowly regaining feeling in portions of my stomach that were previously numb.  (Thank you, Lord.)  A new level of healing has begun.

My mandatory girdle phase ends next Wednesday.  That means Ron has one more week to play his sick little, 'How tight can I wrap her" game that leaves him clapping while I lay flailing on the bed like a helpless mermaid.

As for my appointment today, nine outer stitches were removed.  One long stitch that runs under the surface of the entire length of a precisely thin incision spanning roughly 18-20 inches between hip bones along my bikini line will eventually dissolve, if it hasn't already.  Just in case, I'm still forbidden to take a bath.

I guess my plan of Ron and I sitting in the fitness center hot tub together, with me wearing a string bikini, sipping wine disguised in a water bottle while I leisurely shave my legs will have to wait one more week. 

Just kidding.

I'm not taking Ron.

Mother Tucker!

Part IV:  Recovery, Week 2.

Despite dreading the impending removal of my 2nd drain, I left last week's appointment pretty darn excited.  I was given official permission to take a shower.  If you've never been forbidden to bathe, or been a contestant on Survivor, you might not appreciate the magnitude of such a restriction.  And for someone obsessed with freshly shaved legs, it was kind of a nightmare. 
So a real shower.  That's a big deal.

Here's something you need to know about my family and my tummy tuck.  Zac, Aubrey and Kearstin want absolutely nothing to do with the recovery process.  From the pictures and stories, I'm sure you can't imagine why.  Caymen has been pretty oblivious to any of the major details.  She doesn't ask questions and she's never around during any of my detailed follow up care.  It's just a matter of fact that 'mommy had surgery on her tummy' and 'daddy takes care of mommy.'   As for Ron, he's a little too involved sometimes, and is entirely too fascinated with some of my post-surgical side effects.

For instance, there are areas of my tummy I've lost feeling from where they cut nerves.  I might regain that feeling, or I might not.  This is something that screws with my head.  When I scratch my stomach and I can't feel anything at all, I could very easily qualify for a rubber room.  So when Ron's applying Neosporin to my belly button stitches, that make me nauseous right now anyway, and he starts poking my belly real fast and saying, "Can you feel it?  Can you feel it?  Can you feel it?" while he makes obnoxious sound effects...well, that's grounds for divorce threats in my opinion. 

But back to bathing.  I wanted to take my shower Wednesday night, but Caymen started vomiting.  (Because we didn't have enough gross bodily fluids going on around here.)  So on Thursday, I couldn't wait any longer.  Ron wasn't home at the time, which had it's pros and cons.  Kearstin refused involvement on all counts.  After much persuasion, Aubrey agreed to help me rewrap myself into my Velcro girdle, but refused any involvement in the actual bathroom.  That left only one option.  "Hey Caymen...wanna help mommy?"  Sure! 

All she had to do was sit on the stool in the bathroom while I took a shower with instructions to run and get Aubrey if I "need anything."  Code for:  Tip over, fall out of the bathtub, and/or get overtaken with Heebie Jeebies at the sight of my own stomach, pass out and drown.  You can't think too far out of the box around here.

As I undressed in the bathroom, I knew I better prepare her for what she was about to see when I removed the wretched Velcro girdle..."A rubber tube is hanging from a gaping wound in mommy's hip...totally normal and nothing to fear, cry or vomit about." 
A necessary reminder to myself as well.

Here we go...*Rip*...For several seconds she sat there staring silently and then said, "Well.  Things just got interesting and disgusting all at the same time."  Out of the mouths of babes.  And little did we know just how quickly things were about to escalate.

My ten minute shower was absolutely glorious.  I quietly congratulated myself on being hygienically self-sufficient again while Caymen sat happily humming on her stool beside the sink.  I turned off the water, stepped out of the tub and that's when, without warning, my drainage tube ejected itself from my body and fell to the floor at Caymen's feet. 

In dead silence, we both looked down at it.  We looked at each other.  We looked down again.  She finally said, "I think you're gonna need to tell somebody about that." 

I looked at the exit site and saw a bloody hole full of stitches...and then I calmly and rationally reacted to the situation...all hell broke loose.  I sunk to the bathroom floor, gasping for breath and grabbing for my phone.  The only thing going through my mind was that it broke in half and the other half was still inside me, embedded deeply within my soul. 
(Cut me some slack.  Drama runs rampant here.) 

The doctor was sent an emergency page and immediately called me back.  He had some great news and some really not great news.  The great news was that the tube did not break off inside me and that was the whole deal laying on the bathroom floor. In hindsight, I remember thinking that my tucksticle was hanging a little lower than normal length throughout the day, but I never gave it much thought.  Anyhoo, there was no way for him to safely insert a new one and that meant I would not have to live through another drainage tube removal, but he wanted to see me Monday morning.    Because, the not so great news was that my body now had potential to collect fluid inside me, with no way to escape, thus requiring him to use a spinal needle to manually remove it. 

His voice took on that low, slow motion sound effect when he said, "S-p-in-al n-e-e-d-l-e."  and I answered in a slow mo, "Nooooooooooo..." right before my head thunked against the bathroom wall.

Enter 'Bed rest until Monday' because that was the best way to prevent my body from producing fluid.  Within the first hour of bed rest, I was convinced I could feel fluid building up in my lungs and by Saturday morning, I could hear gurgling because as it turns out, Ron isn't the only hypochondriac in our family.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful here.  God has been super-generous in providing writing material throughout this process, not to mention my life in general.  But as I lay in bed for 3 days contemplating what might happen with a needle on Monday morning, I prayed something I've never prayed before;
"Please Lord, don't make me write that."

Monday morning arrived, I lay on the exam table and in order to check for excess fluid, the doctor smacked my stomach, twice.  Not that I could feel it, but at least he didn't make sound effects.  No fluid!  As an added bonus, they were able to remove my belly button stitches while I was there and I've been upgraded from 'Bed Rest' to 'Take it easy, seriously.'  Whatever that means.

As we drove away I said, "I'm so happy right now." 
Ron replied, "Me too...those are some flat ass abs."

Happy Thanksgiving.

What The Tuck?!?

Part III:  Recovery, Week 1.

In all my pre-surgical research, there was one recurring theme.  The pain.
I tried not to dwell on that because
1.  I've experienced 3 C-sections and
2.  I'm a Tough Mudder twice over, after all.  What is this pain you speak of?

This is where you're expecting me to fill you in on the indescribable  tummy tuck pain, right?  Wrong.  In all seriousness, with exception of the moment I woke up in the post-op room, my pain level has been quite comparable to that of a C-section.  Certainly no worse, that's for sure. 

So here's a day by day breakdown of my first 7 days of recovery, including some things they told me to expect and a few they most certainly did not...


Wednesday & Thursday
The key to recovery is to get a jump on your pain pills on the first day and stay ahead of the pain game.  I took a Vicodin religiously every 3 hours for the first 48 hours.  That, on top of the pain blockers I'd been given during the surgery, made those first two days go smoothly.  I rotated between sitting in a recliner and lying propped up on my side with a pillow between my knees in bed.  The worst part was the transition from sitting to standing and vice versa.  Ron did the brunt of the movement for me and I just hung on.  A heating pad also helped a lot.

Bathing is strictly prohibited the first week, so on Thursday night, Ron put a chair in the bathtub and helped me shave my legs and wash my hair without getting the Velcro wrap around my midsection wet.  That's true love, people.

We'd been forewarned about the 2 drains that would remain attached to me for at least a week that Ron would be responsible for emptying and measuring the contents twice a day.  What they don't tell you is that they're two rubber pouches that hang from chords and dangle right at your crotch. 

It didn't take long for my family to dub those "Mom's testicles"....until the day Caymen overheard me tell Ron I need my testicles emptied and Ron replied, "Well, so do I but you don't hear me complaining." 

Caymen burst out laughing and said, "You don't have testicles, daddy!"
My drains were immediately renamed Tucksticles. 
Hopefully that solves any potential '1st Grade Show n Tell' nightmare.

Quick word of advice:  DO NOT weigh yourself the day after surgery.  I made the huge mistake of sneaking onto my scale, discovered 5 extra pounds and spiraled into oblivion.  Ron was furious and strictly forbid me from weighing myself again.  Turns out, it's just extra fluid and it comes off within 4 days...I know that because I continue to sneak onto the scale each morning.  Ssshhhh.

Friday  
The itching under the girdle began, as did a slight rattling in my chest, causing me to feel the need to cough.  Anyone who's ever had a C-section knows that you'd rather gouge out your eyeballs with a butter knife than cough.  (Same goes for sneezing.)  I panicked about my cough to Ron.  His response was to casually inform me that my nurse in the recovery room immediately following my surgery told him that I should take deep breaths so that didn't happen.  I furiously asked him why he never told me that.  He said, "You were laying right there when she said it.  Your eyes were open, I assumed you were paying attention." 

Saturday & Sunday
Huge turning point.  I woke up feeling noticeably better and my Vicodin dosage was bumped to every 5 hours...which is good, because that's roughly how long it takes Ron to watch a football game on tv.

Monday
Ron returned to work.  Bruising began to creep down my left leg, but otherwise I felt great.  I washed my own hair, I shaved my own legs and I began eyeing my tightly wrapped tummy like a child eyes a birthday gift.  I mentioned to Ron the possibility of taking a quick peek.  And that brings us to....

Tuesday.
I think the best way to explain what happened is to describe the scene Zac walked in on when he returned from work:  Ron, wearing only his boxers, was scrambling around frantically yelling at me to calm down, while I stood wearing only my pajama top, loosely hanging around my neck, looking down at my swollen (albeit smooth) tummy and swaying woozily back and forth unable to rip my eyes away from my belly button that is overflowing with black stitches that looked exactly like a swarm of ants from where I stood.  "Holy mother, wrap it back up...WRAP IT BACK UP!!!!!"

Sadly,  Zac was Facetiming with his girlfriend at the time.  A good reminder not to walk into our bedroom unannounced.  Another lesson learned the hard way.

Wednesday  (one week post-op)
We sat in the plastic surgeon's waiting room. Ron played on his phone while I sat with my hands stuffed into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, trying to hide my tucksticles from the other patients.  The silence was broken by a painful scream that came from an exam room in the back.  My immediate thought was, let's take the dramatics down a notch in there, shall we?  (Before you remind me of the scene from our bedroom a mere 12 hours before, let me remind you that my belly button looked like it was full of ants, okay?!?  If that doesn't call for drama, nothing does.)

Half hour later, I was sitting in my own exam room with my pants down around my thighs, my head hanging upside down with my hair in my crotch, face to face with my ant infested belly button, violently dry heaving because the Physician's Assistant had just removed my right tucksticle.  Let me explain...she unstitched a portion of my fresh incision and slowly pulled a 12inch piece of tube out from under my rib cage from the inside.  She was exactly right when she said, "This won't hurt."  What she failed to mention was that it would feel like she was pulling a live snake out of my freakin soul.  But hey. I didn't scream.

Stay tuned next week when they remove my one remaining tucksticle and the ants from my belly button. 

I don't see how any of that could possibly go wrong...

Tuck It Up

Part II, The Surgery:

Wednesday morning, I carefully followed all of the pre-surgical instructions.  Well, almost all.  Certainly when they said 'No Make-Up', they weren't referring to eye liner and mascara.  That'd just be ridiculous.

A small portion of my thoughts were centered on the excited anticipation of realizing another dream.  But then I'd find myself on an irrational thought loop:  I'm going to be lying on a surgical table completely exposed to a room full of medical professionals and unable to suck in my stomach.  What will they do with my roll of skin after it's removed?  What if I'm under just enough anesthesia where I can't move or respond, but not enough to where I don't feel him do the surgery?  What if I throw up?  What if he puts my brand new belly button up too high?  Or worse, too low?  You get the idea.  Worst case scenarios are my specialty. 

Before we left, I shared some of my concerns with Ron and Zac.  Huge mistake.  What started out as a simple question turned into the great belly button debate that had me briefly contemplating asking the doctor to leave me belly button free until Zac suggested that no belly button at all might give the illusion of constant camel toe.  Well that settles that.

Before I could finish my inner shudder, Ron chimed in with, "I'm more concerned with how far your vagina might get pulled up."  ....silence....
I've tried to come up with an explanation for what he said.  I've got nothin.  Clearly, there was a massive break down in communication somewhere along the way.

We left for the Ohio Valley Medical Center in Springfield.  I need to take a minute to praise that place.  Ron and I have each had procedures done there and we have yet to have a negative experience as far as the surgical center goes.  It runs like clockwork.  The staff is incredible from the time you enter to the time you leave and everything in between.  They treat you like you're their only patient and this time was no different.  I highly recommend it.

We arrived at 11, by 11:30 I was in a room hooked up to my iv and at 11:45 the anesthesiologist walked in.  It was the same man who took incredible care of me during my C-section for Caymen and I'll never forget him.  Nothing like receiving a little pre-surgical hug from God, right?   He explained everything he'd be doing during the surgery.  I shared my concerns about anesthesia and he assured me he'll know exactly how far I'm under at all times.  I also told him it's extremely common for me to throw up when I'm coming out of anesthesia and the mere thought of vomiting after this particular procedure had me scared to death.  He calmed my nerves and explained the precautionary steps he'd take to ensure I wouldn't get sick. 

Then he told us about a patient he had on the table once who had a hernia removed.  Just as they closed his incision, he became violently ill and all of his stitches tore open. I said, "That doesn't really make me feel better."  He replied, "Oh, that won't happen to you.  He was young and muscular." 
Thanks, dude.  Does your wife call you Chuckles, per chance?

Around 12:15, my doctor came in to see me, reviewed everything he was going to do and then asked if we had any questions.  I darted my eyes toward Ron and silently willed him not to say vagina. 

Shortly after, I was being wheeled away from my husband toward a full abdominoplasty that could take up to 3 hours.  Mine ended up taking roughly 2.  I hope to learn more details of what my personal procedure entailed at my follow up appointment and share those in my next post. 

The next thing I knew, I woke up sitting at an angle.  The throbbing sensation in my abs immediately reminded me where I was and the nurse asked me to rate my pain.  I said the first thing that popped into my mind, "It hurts like a mother."  And with that, she pumped me full of morphine and I returned to a happy place where I could eat saltine crackers, drink water and go to the bathroom...because urination is the magic key to getting discharged after surgery.

 The nurse unhooked me from my iv and pulled up my gown to explain what was happening.  I'm wrapped tightly with a velcro girdle contraption that tightly squeezes my abs from just under my chest all the way down over the incision site.  Two tubes remain inserted into my incision, exit from underneath the wrap and are attached to rubber pouches that catch drainage.  She explained all the post-op instructions to Ron and then asked if we'd like to see my new tummy.

She released the wrap and through morphine goggles, I think I saw a smooth stomach and just maybe the most perfectly placed brand new belly-button a girl could ask for.  But she quickly wrapped it back up tight and we're under strict orders to keep it that way until my first follow-up appointment on Wednesday.   

By 3:30, I was being wheeled out to our van with a fresh carnation in hand as a sweet parting gift. 

All surgery concerns appear to have been unfounded.  I'm pretty sure I stayed asleep during surgery, I never threw up, I couldn't care less what they did with my roll, from the brief blurry glimpse I got, it seems the doctor can be trusted with belly button placement and on return from my first trip to the bathroom, I gave Ron a thumbs up.  Breathe easy, fella...everything below stayed put and I still pee sitting down.

 

Onto the next stage. 
Recovery.



To Be Continued...

 

*Please attribute any typos to the periodic doses of Vicodin I'm still under...as for any offensive personal details, that was probably all me.

Tuck U.

The long awaited time has come.  And when I say long awaited, I don't mean the 9 months since scheduling the tummy tuck.  I'm referring back to 2001 when I made a goal:  "Lose the extra hundred pounds, keep it off and maybe someday I'll get a tummy tuck."  I've spent the past 6 years trying to prove to myself that I'll keep it off. 

There have been a few people who know my struggles with body image issues that have wondered how I can blog this process.  I'll address that below, but I think it's important to keep in mind that I wouldn't be taking 'Before' pictures of my saggy stretch marked belly without operating under the assumption that the 'After' pics will be a vast improvement.  Note that I won't be posting any shots of myself from behind.  I'm not completely insane.

Similar to my other recent adventures, I approached the tummy tuck with research.  It started with phone calls a couple years ago asking the simple question of cost.  Ron and I had an amount in mind that we'd be willing to pay, but everyplace I called was significantly higher than that.  Door closed.  Wasn't meant to be.  I accepted that and moved on, until last December during a conversation with a friend.  Her husband overheard me mention the prices I'd been told.  Having a job related to the medical field, he referred me to Dr. Troha, and gave me a rough calculation as to how much he charges.  Extremely close to our price range. 

*Regarding the cost of my procedure, it's not a secret, but I won't be listing it here.  Anyone seriously interested in that information for themselves can ask me privately or consult the doctor directly.

Next step:  My initial consult.  I no sooner got taken back to an exam room and pulled my gown over my head, then had to go to the bathroom.  The mental debate began.  Sneak to the restroom down the hall wearing an open backed gown or hope we make it through the appointment without him pushing on my stomach...cue the James Bond music as I crack the door open and peek my head into the hall.  Everything went according to plan until on my way back when I walked into the wrong exam room to find the doctor with another patient, gasped and darted back to my room, where I sat trying to look casual when he walked in. 
Hey stranger, long time no see.

The actual exam was simple and painless.  The doctor is really nice and patiently answered all of my nervous questions, although when I enquired about a partial tuck he could have at least acted like that was a good idea instead of quickly telling me that my stomach is the perfect candidate for the full shebang. 
Okay, he said it much nicer than that and explained that for the relatively minimal price difference between the two procedures, I'd be happier with the results of a full.  May as well do this right.

That was back in February and I left there under absolutely no pressure to schedule and was encouraged to take my time and think about it.  After much discussion with Ron, November was the best option in relation to both finances and work schedules.

I had 9 full months to completely immerse myself in obsessive research that started with Google, led to seeking out actual real life tummy tuck recipients, which eventually escalated to a twisted version of 'You show me yours and I'll show you mine.'  Turns out women are much more willing to show you their new belly button if you offer to show them your old one.  I also discovered that when people find out you're getting a tummy tuck, they tend to automatically look down at your stomach while you stand there hoping they don't look back up and say, "Good idea."

Most recently, my obsession turned to the dreaded post-surgical bowel movement.  I've had 3 C-sections.  I know what I'm talking about here and I predict many of you do, too.  That began the string of phone calls to the doctor's office and surgical center asking anyone and everyone their opinion on my idea of some pre-surgical laxatives, most of which were met with a resounding 'NO' and one who actually said, 'Oh Lord, No.'  
Take it easy.  Never hurts to ask.

I feel like I've educated myself on the topic of tummy tucks as much as I could.  I have no idea what the journey holds or what the end result will be, but I guess we'll all find out together.  Ron has been given free reign to document the process with the camera.  We should all be terrified.  Who am I kidding...I should be terrified. 

But I've done my part and now it's time to let the surgeon do his.  My post-surgical instructions consist solely of staying off my feet.  I'll be propped in a recliner, completely dependent on my family to care for each other, the house, the dogs and me for several weeks, not to mention they'll be single-handedly responsible for making the entire Thanksgiving meal for our annual Feast With Friends we host at our house the night before Thanksgiving. 
Things are bound to get interesting.

So in reference to the question as to how I can blog this, I think the bigger question here is, how can I not blog this? 

In the words of my doctor, "Once you hit that 4 week mark, you're free to return to a completely normal life with your family."

He obviously doesn't know us very well.



Until we meet again.

To Be Continued...

Thou Shalt Not

We were long overdue. 

It's been months since our last major blow out worthy of a title,  reminiscent of the 'Worship Your God Fight of 2003' and the ever popular 'Shirt vs. Shirt Battle of 2012.'

As is usually the case, we didn't see this one coming, but in hindsight recognize the groundwork that gradually led to the 'Bible Verse War of 2013.'

Welcome to a peek into the Funny Farm, kids.  We call it home...

It all started at church when I happily returned from the coffee bar to my husband's side with my fresh cup of caffeine to learn that he'd (once again) volunteered me to pass the Communion plates and Offering bowls because in his words, "It's good for me."  Nothing against Communion and Offering, it's just that I always manage to make a mess of it from nerves (read: phobias) of being one of the few standing, while everyone else is sitting, and the subsequent hot flashes and shaky hands when one of my inner voices continually taunts me with the possibility of dropping the tray of 50 tiny cups of grape juice into someone's lap.  That's never happened, mind you, but it's quite common for me to screw up the pattern of passing and end up on the receiving end of my husband's disappointed looks when he gets stuck juggling 2 trays of juice and 2 trays of bread while I stand empty handed on the opposite end giving him the 'what did you think was gonna happen here? gesture.  The sooner he stops with this sick Public Humiliation Therapy, the better off we'll be.

Believe it or not, I still didn't see the fight coming.

We listened to the awesome sermon on living by faith and not by fear where it was pointed out that despite Peter's doubt that caused him to begin to sink in his attempt to walk across the water when Jesus beckoned him, at least he had the courage to step out in faith, unlike the other 11 who stayed sitting in the safety of the boat. 

Still didn't see the fight coming.

We've been wanting a black leather recliner for the rec room and I'd really like to have it before my tummy tuck next week, so I was thrilled when he suggested we make a trip to Value City Furniture after church.  We'd been in the store a whopping 10 minutes and all we could find was groupings of brown leather until I heard Ron yell, "Hey Shar!  There's a black family down there!"  I looked up to see him pointing toward the grouping of black leather chairs he was referring to, but unfortunately, there stood an African American family looking back at him.  We left empty handed.

Now I started to see it coming. 

So on the ride home when he tried to change the subject from what just happened, to the sermon we'd heard, my day's frustrations rose to the surface and I called him a 'Boat Sitter.'  Boom.

His defense:  "Nuh uh!  I've been faithfully giving money to K-Love every month for a year and a half without telling you!"
Me:  "Excuse me?  You've been what?!  Why?!?!"
Him:  *with deer-in-the-headlights face* "Um...because the Bible says that when you give to the needy your left hand shouldn't know what your right hand is doing!!"
Me:  "First of all, K-Love isn't the needy.  Second, I'm not your freakin left hand, we're supposed to be one flesh and you shouldn't keep secrets from your own flesh!" 

A hush fell over the mini-van.  Ha.

We arrived home and went our separate ways.  I went to bed, he headed to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, he came into the bedroom and said, "Oh, by the way, your tummy tuck is sinful."

WTH?!?

He flipped open his bible to Leviticus 19:28 and proudly read, "Do not cut your bodies for the dead..."

Well, then let me clarify a couple of things:
1.  I'm not cutting my body...Dr. Troha is.
2.  I'm not doing it for the dead.  I'm doing it for you and you're alive...at least for the time being...

Note to self;  Thou shalt not kill.

In Answer To Your Question...

There was a recent uproar in the news when a young mother in seemingly great physical shape, posted a picture of herself wearing workout gear (or bathing suit, one might argue) with her 3 young children and the caption read:  "What's Your Excuse?"

She asks women that question as if she knows them and has any right to hear their answer.  But she doesn't know me at all.  So I'm going to take a moment to introduce myself to her.  I'm the almost 42 year old woman who at one point tipped the scale at 254 lbs and who has spent the past 12 years fighting the uphill battle of the genes she was born with and the love of eating she developed along the way.  I'm the woman who this morning weighed in at 160 pounds and 2 ounces.  I'm the woman who yesterday weighed 162 pounds and 8 ounces.  While we're at it, I'm also the woman who can tell you what she weighed on any given day dating back to 2005.  I'm able to do that because I'm the woman who over the course of her never ending weight loss journey, developed a nasty compulsive obsessive disorder with my bathroom scale.

You'd probably pass this particular woman known as Me on the street and think she could stand to lose weight.  Trust me, you're not telling her anything she doesn't tell herself every time she looks in the mirror, or worse yet, at the chart hanging in the doctor's office that tells her she's about an inch short of a "healthy" weight and frequently fluctuates 3 lbs away from an "ideal" BMI.  Thankfully, this woman's doctor is in tune with her and realizes he needs to continue reminding her to stop trying to lose weight because she walks a very narrow line between calorie counting and flirting with an eating disorder, thus qualifying her as the world's biggest anorexic...or as I call it, Gigantor-exic.

So this woman makes a day to day, (or in some cases, minute to minute), choice to ignore the incessant opinions of society, their charts and yes, even the mirror, to focus on a few facts.  This woman has been happily married for almost 21 years and together are parents of 4 responsible, healthy and thriving kids ranging in age from 6-20, neither of which has anything to do with what the scale says.  And as for that pesky healthy weight obsession, this particular woman requires a conscious awareness to view food as the sustenance from God that it is, rather than her source of comfort, joy or even more commonly, the enemy, while doing her best to choose activities that she not only enjoys but that challenge her ever aging and rebellious body whose parts, despite her best efforts, appear to be heading South for the winter. 

Unfortunately, this isn't about one physically fit mom who thinks she has all the answers.  She simply brought to light a bigger underlying issue.  This is about all women, myself included, who at any given moment choose the path of judgment, on and about each other, whether it be her choice of career, husband, mothering, politics, food, workout habits and/or physical appearance.  You name it, we judge it.  But, we need to caution ourselves not to jump to conclusions about someone based on the little to nothing we think we know about her, and when we catch ourselves in the act, need to remind ourselves of this:  You don't know her journey.  You have no clue what she deals with on a day to day basis.  You have no idea where she's been, where she's going, where God plans to take her and how He's going to use her.  Maybe we as women could begin encouraging each other and extending a little grace...that same encouragement and grace we crave when our own personal demons rear their ugly heads along our path.

So I have this to say to the mom who demanded my excuse.
This woman you might look at and label "overweight" is so much more than that.  This woman is on a journey with her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, the only one who knows her whole story because He's the author of it.  Everything about this woman starts there and that's where everything about this woman will finish.  Therefore, I have no excuse to offer you because I answer only to Him.  I'm sorry, but you're not qualified for the position of authority you placed yourself in by posting that remark aimed at other women, and in turn, joined the chorus of negative voices that already exist in our heads.  In your response to the public backlash, you explained that your reasoning behind the picture was purely motivational.  I'd be lying if I didn't admit that your photo elicited an envy deep within for a body that's forever been and ever will be unattainable for me or that when I learned that you're a professional personal trainer, I rolled my eyes and fell right into the judgmental train of thought that I just condemned a couple paragraphs above.  But 'Motivated' doesn't ring a bell.  Had you only left the photo uncaptioned, (I'd still be jealous), but maybe I'd be a little inspired.  Instead, you got personal and threw down a gauntlet causing women everywhere to ask ourselves why we don't look like you and putting us in a position to defend the unique and beautiful women God created us to be. 

So come on, women!  (You too, hard-bodied mom we're all mad at right now.)
I have issues.  You have issues.  How bout we band together in a force of loving sisterhood so strong that our caption might read:

"What issues?"