An Introduction

260. Just a number, yes. But when I stared down at the scale this morning, that's the number that stared back at me. I hadn't seen that number in about 18 months, and the last time I did, I had felt a sense of accomplishment, of pride. Today this number signifies terror, sadness, and disappointment.

Let's preface this with a story...
Not too long ago, the number displayed on that little LCD window was 312. One morning, not unlike this morning, I decided I'd had enough. Enough shopping around from store to store trying to find pants to fit me. Enough wearing baggy jerseys and muumuu-esque shirts to attempt to cover and hide my girth. "No more.", I said. Something in my brain just fired up, telling me it was time to change. So I did. I immediately changed the way I approached food and became a more active person. The first few weeks were absolutely horrendous, the cravings and headaches, my body yearned for junk food and sugar. My loving wife stood by helpless as I deteriorated into a sobbing infant that wanted nothing more than a taste of Dr.Pepper Slurpee. But I stuck to my guns, and with great discipline and will power, overcame my addiction, or so I thought. Life was good. Better than it had ever been. The years of self-inflicted abuse and sloth-like inactivity were becoming a distant memory, melting off of me like a delicious ice-cream cone in the hot summer sun. I was walking, then jogging, then even running. I had laced up the skates and started playing hockey again. In matter of 8 months I had dropped a staggering 87 pounds and felt as though I could climb the Matterhorn. Then came the pain.

Indescribable, blinding pain. Right side, under my ribs. Never before had I felt a pain so intense, so acute, so fierce. Let's back up a few minutes. After having lost all that weight, I felt I was ready to sample a food I had deprived my body of for so long. I deserved it. A reward. Cheese. I had been restricting myself to veggies, fruits, and lean proteins for so long, a simple 100g piece of New Bothwell Cheddar Cheese was the equivalent of a steak dinner at that moment. Before the taste of that Manitoba medium-aged had even begun to wane from my palette, the pain struck. Welling up inside me like a firey torrent from the depths of Hell, it knocked me to my knees, and then to the floor. For what felt like an eternity, it lasted for 60 mins. Each second was excruciating. Without drawing out this dramatic tale, I'll cut right to the chase. It was my gall bladder.

Because I had been depriving myself of all fats (not a good idea), my gall bladder was as inactive and sloth-like as I was not too long before. This led to the bile that was being stored to crystallize and form gall stones. This was fine and dandy until the cheese I treated myself to kicked the gall bladder into action, out of it's previously comatose state. Imagine, if you will, passing thousands of miniscule glass shards through a highly sensitive duct no larger than the eye of a needle. The pain of kidney stones actually pale in comparison because the ducts they pass through are larger, and those are still akin to pissing out porcupine quills. I don't remember how many attacks I had over the course of the next two weeks, but to summarize, I took a natural route to recovery instead of having the gall bladder removed. My wife had hers removed and she didn't recommend it too highly. So rather than spend days in a hospital bed, I drank olive oil and lemon juice and spent days on the toilet.

Skipping ahead to being fully recovered, I began treating myself to the foods that I had deprived myself of more often. Now that the pains had subsided, I felt the need to taste these foods again. And again and again. Heck, I was 225 and almost at my goal weight, as if I didn't deserve it! When I had to buy a new pair of pants because I'd gained 10 pounds, it was no big deal. I'll just cut back on the treats. My shirts aren't fitting anymore, must be shrinking in the wash. Nope. You're getting fat again, champ. I signed up (in January) to run a half marathon in June to kick start my butt back into shape. I still managed to run the race and finish while weighing around 240. That was three months ago.

Back when I had my initial push to start losing the weight, I realized how difficult this truly is. Going into the lunchroom at work became the most horrible experience, and was one that was repeated at least 3 times a day, everyday. As I go to retrieve my fruit and veggies from the fridge, someone's heating up their snack or lunch. Pizza, fries, fried chicken, pasta. No big deal, right? Imagine being addicted to something much more maligned and socially unacceptable; cigarettes, alcohol, heroin, cocaine. Now imagine again, that you had to pass through a room a minimum of three times a day, filled with people enjoying that which you cannot have. Even going so far as OFFERING you a smoke, drink, or hit. That's what it's like being a food addict. However, most other addictions have the distinct advantage of not being essential to existence, and can be avoided if need be. You can go through a lifetime having never smoked, drank, snorted, or shot up. But you have to eat. Back to the top of the page we go.

260. Just a number, yes. But when I stared down at the scale this morning, that's the number that stared back at me. Today this number signifies strength, determination, and will power. It's also the last time I'll ever see that number again.