It all started in my finger, with this little blister that I scratched:
and the next morning (no lie!) it looked like this:
Well, ya know, you think, "Hey, that's not so bad?" but it was pretty awful. Not only did I have to wear a cast-like thing and sling on my arm, for the first week I was not really allowed to move, so I pretty much sat in bed all day with my arm elevated. Try doing that and taking care of your family. I was put on two rounds of very strong antibiotics and the next step--if the second round didn't work--was hospitalization. Nice.
What made it all worse was the drugs I had to take interfered with my Synthroid, so I was unable to take it for almost an entire month--20 days, anyway. By the end of my treatment, I was completely WORTHLESS--I had no energy and was absolutely miserable.
That was my August.
My September consisted of comforting myself in every way possible. I stayed away from the gym, got out of my groove with my eating, and shoved every bit of sugar I could in my mouth, working around my band. I found a way to get past it--all I had to do was drink during my meal and VOILA! I could really get some serious Macaroni-and-Cheese in my belly. Drink a little more and I could eat not just one enchilada but TWO--and some chips and queso to boot.
Everything has gone down the toilet for the past two months. Thankfully I have not gained any weight, but I certainly have not lost, and I've wasted 60 days of my life trying to recapture the eating habits I gave up 7 months ago. WHY?? I do not know. Fear? Of what? Failure? Success? I wish I knew. I know I need to call my surgeon's office. I'm scared of that, too, to be perfectly honest.
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