When the creative arts transcend the mundane, the effects can transform life. Passages from literature, images from films, and lyrics from treasured songs live in my brain as DNA-level elements of my identity, like old addresses, faces of friends and promises kept and broken.

Live music is the most powerful of all artistic vehicles. Recorded music lends itself to repeated listenings that eventually numb the impact of even the greatest compositions, but live music can connect on an organic level with exponentially greater effect.

It has been a long time since I felt that axis-shaking wallop, but it happened unexpectedly at the April 21 Bob Dylan concert at the BGSU Stroh Center. Part of what made the encounter so surprising was that the moment did not come from Dylan, but from his opening act, the Southern California band Dawes.

Before the concert, which was organized by a tireless and dedicated group of people for the American Red Cross of Northwest Ohio, a reception offered an opportunity for supporters to mingle and get psyched for the show.

I know many of the people who help run the local Red Cross, but I only see some of them a few times a year. The preconcert reception was the first time I have seen many of them since I embarked on a weight-loss journey through bariatric surgery in September. I have lost 160 pounds, and part of the reward for the sacrifice and exercise is seeing the reaction from people as they realize they are seeing me, with the poundage of another human being missing from my face and frame. It is natural for the conversation to turn to the impact of the lifestyle change; with some people I share more intimate details of battling an addiction to food and with others I keep it generic.

People have been very kind and generous with their comments; I believe most people understand the degree of difficulty involved in such a transformation.

After the reception, my wife and I took our seats in the Stroh Center — a superb venue for a concert, its prickly  security staff the only distraction from the pleasantries — surrounded by some of our best friends and some of our newest.

I was not familiar with Dawes’ music, but it was clear the couple of thousand people who showed up to hear them play were. The four-piece band played an engaging set; its songs are literate and well-crafted, sung with empathy by lead singer Taylor Goldsmith.

Dawes breezed through a half-dozen songs, all of which were quality but none of which hinted at the wallop about to be unleashed.

For its penultimate song, Goldsmith stepped to the mic as Tay Strathairn played a soft keyboard introduction that strongly recalled vintage Jackson Browne.

Goldsmith sang about a young man on the Golden Gate Bridge preparing to “join a demographic” by committing suicide. A police sergeant asks him why he wants to die, and the suicidal man on the bridge sings:

“Oh, it’s a little bit of everything/It’s the mountains/It’s the fog/It’s the news at six o’clock/It’s the death of my first dog/It’s the angels up above me/It’s the song that they don’t sing/It’s a little bit of everything.”

It’s a compelling start, and though I was drawn in, I was still not expecting the intensity of the next stanza.

“An older man stands in a buffet line/He is smiling and he’s holding out his plate,” Goldsmith sang, and, knowing that the ending of this part of the story would be “A little bit of everything,” I thought to myself, “Uh-oh.”

Goldsmith continued, “And the further he looks back into his timeline/That hard road always led him to today/Making up for when his bright future had left him/Making up for the fact his only son is gone/And letting everything out once, as his server asks him/‘Have you figured out yet, what it is you want?’/‘I want a little bit of everything/The biscuits and the beans/Whatever helps me to forget about/The things that brought me to my knees/So pile on those mashed potatoes/And an extra chicken wing/I’m having a little bit of everything’.”

I sat there among nearly 3,000 people, suddenly stunned and isolated and feeling exposed. Here, in a few lines, was the summation of the 14 months’ worth of psychological excavation I endured to curb (never cure, but curb) my emotional addiction to eating.

I do not expect to find any other work of art that gets to the bravado and foolishness behind eating as an act of simultaneous solace and defiance; if I had heard those words a few years ago, I might have had my epiphany much earlier.

Intellectually, I know there were fewer than a dozen people among the 3,000 who knew about my journey. Of that dozen, fewer than three truly know the details and only one, my wife Shannon, knows the full story. But as Goldsmith sang about the man who piled on mashed potatoes to fill the ever-expanding well of sadness in his heart, I felt utterly exposed and raw, as if a spotlight were shining from the stage, not on me but through me.

It was an intense few minutes, welled in shame and guilt and the rather foolish shock of realizing that such a personal and intimate experience is common enough to be captured in a few lines of a pop song.

I remember squeezing my wife’s hand, knowing she was watching me and knowing she could feel me tense up.

Drummer Griffin Goldsmith and bassist Wylie Gelber propelled the song to its finish, but it wasn’t until a few days later that I would listen to the rest of the words, which center on a young bride-to-be’s definitions of love and marriage.

I did not take advantage of an opportunity to meet Dawes at their merch booth. In retrospect, I am glad I didn’t, as the experience was too fresh to be captured in words. A confession along the lines of “Oh, my God, your song dragged my personal shame into the light and made me feel like the skin had been peeled away from my flesh” would not have been appropriate, but an acknowledgement would not have been enough.

I have listened to the song several times in the past few days but I put it away before it could lose its impact. I know I will turn to it again, just as I know it will never have the full impact it had the first time I heard it, live.

And that’s OK. Because there is another trove of wisdom in the song, one that wisely discourages full dissection and further discussion:

“It’s like trying to make out every word/When you should simply hum along/It’s not some message written in the dark/Or some truth that no one’s seen/It’s a little bit of everything.”

Michael S. Miller is editor in chief of Toledo Free Press and Toledo Free Press Star. Email him at mmiller@toleodfreepress.com.

Tags: American Red Cross, bariatric surgery, BGSU Stroh Center, Bob Dylan, Dawes, Lighting The Fuse, Michael S. Miller

This entry was posted on Friday, April 26th, 2013 at 10:54 am and is filed under Lighting The Fuse, Opinion.
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The salt for our home water softener is delivered in 50-pound bags. The bags are left on our front porch and I drag them down to the basement to pour their crystalline contents into the water softener tank. This has been a regular process for a decade, but the most recent salt delivery included a bonus — an epiphany.

As I lifted a 50-pound bag over my left shoulder and started for the basement, it struck me that since beginning a bariatric surgery process on Sept. 1, I have lost 120 pounds, nearly two and a half of the 50-pound bags of salt. I wasn’t ready to navigate the basement stairs carrying three bags of salt, but I did manipulate a second bag over my right shoulder and started for the basement.

I was lumbering, slow, hesitant and felt crushed under the extra 100 pounds of salt, but I walked a few circles in the kitchen, trying to reconcile the idea that just a few months ago, I carried that much weight, plus another 20 pounds, on my frame every day.

Setting down one bag was a relief. Setting down the second bag was a revelation.

At the beginning of the bariatric surgery process, I weighed 380 pounds. My current 260 is more than an adjustment of aesthetics and habits; it is a reclamation of my life. Not quite four months after the sleeve procedure, which involved the removal of 85 percent of my stomach through laparoscopic surgery, I continue to break through plateaus and lose pounds. My eventual goal is to get down to 225 or so, the weight I was when I graduated from high school, and then maintain around that weight forever and ever, amen.

I remain on a high-protein, minimal sugar and low-carbohydrate diet, and I am often asked if I miss food, both quality and quantity.

Yes. Yes, I do. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. I miss quaffing Coke. I miss pasta, especially Mueller’s spaghetti with Ragu tomato sauce, ground beef and fresh, warm bread, all doused with a snowfall of grated Parmesan cheese. I miss breads in general, and McDonald’s french fries and Wendy’s cheeseburgers and Fricker’s buffalo wings and the parade of cookies, candy and ice cream that pass by my eyes at parties, grocery stores and restaurants.

I miss eating more than a few spoonfuls at a time.

But I do not miss those things enough to lose the ground I have gained through the weight I have lost.

On the last day before Christmas vacation began, I ran and played tag with my 6-year-old son, Evan, in the driveway as he waited for the school bus. We chased each other in circles and froze in time-out spots and laughed as we slipped by each other’s outreached hands. I do not believe Evan recognized the moment as the landmark event it was, but after nearly six years of sitting by as Evan and his younger brother Sean ran and played and tried without success to get me to join them, I felt a burst of “hallelujah!” that still makes me smile.

I would not trade that game of tag with my son for an ocean of spaghetti and meat sauce, or a lifetime supply of crispy, saucy chicken wings from Fricker’s.

In tandem with food discipline, I have been unshakably dedicated to exercising an hour every day. I am simply walking, at a decent but not record-setting pace, for at least one hour every day. (Not that speed has ever been my strong suit. My Libbey High School football coach, Dave Merritt, used to say he should time my 40-yard dash with a calendar. Assistant coach Fred Wesoloski once asked how, since I moved so slowly, the sperm that became me beat all the others to my mother’s egg. I believe my response was that the sperm carrying me must have eaten all its competitors).

I usually walk during lunch hour for three laps on a one-mile course through Downtown Toledo, down Monroe Street, along Summit Street, north on Washington Street and across 10th Street. During the holiday vacation weeks, I experienced a number of different paths. Visiting friends in Fort Wayne, Ind., our walking path took us to Parkview Field, home of the Fort Wayne TinCaps baseball team. It’s a marvelous facility, newer than our Fifth Third Field if not as ambitious and regal, but it has one friendly advantage over the home of the Mud Hens; it stays open every day for walkers to circle its nearly one-mile pavilion lap. It’s still outdoors, but it is safer than dodging car traffic and fosters a great affinity for the facility. Perhaps the difference between the growth in downtown Fort Wayne and the stagnancy in Downtown Toledo can be summed up in the difference in attitude between the open and utilized Parkview Field and the locked and empty Fifth Third Field.

On Christmas Day, I watched the sun rise as I walked a three-mile path around Big Fish Lake in Ortonville, Mich. Snow had dusted the trees and freezing lake, and the Christmas morning was silent except for the geese and the crunch of snow under my feet. It was a peaceful, spiritual walk, one I never would have contemplated before I dropped 120 pounds of fat from my bones.

My New Year’s Day walk was 1,500 miles south, on the Don Soffer Exercise Trail in Aventura, Fla. That path, circling a golf course, is also three miles, but that is where its similarity to Big Fish Lake ends. The Soffer trail is lush with green palms and tropical plants, flush with flamingos and iguanas and geckos. It is also a display area for people with great tenacity and athleticism (T&A). T&A is in abundant display in South Florida, at beaches, pools, clubs, shopping malls, temples, etc., but the Soffer trail is home to some of the finest T&A a married Midwesterner is likely to see in an environment without shiny silver poles.

It’s damn inspiring.

I am loathe to admit I enjoy exercise and walking, regardless of the path, weather or scenery. And while I am walking farther and slightly faster each week, I am still no Usain Bolt; I tried jogging once, but the resulting brontosaurus-like, Richter-scale motion was a freakish blend of Miller walking and jogging I called “Millogging.” It wasn’t pretty.

But as the weeks and months have slipped by, I find that hour of moving not only breaks up my day, it energizes my mind and inspires my still-adjusting legs and feet.

The bariatric surgery and resulting 120-pound weight loss have changed everything for the better. What is a piece of bread compared to playing tag with my son? What is a glass of Coke in relation to seeing a Christmas Day sunrise over a snow-dusted lake? What is a cheeseburger next to the sensory indulgence of tropical birds, green palms and inspiring T&A?

My journey is not easy, and will not end until I do. But I no longer sit like a sloth and watch life speed by.

I move. I may not move as fast as life does, but I move. Therefore, I am.

Michael S. Miller is editor in chief of Toledo Free Press and Toledo Free Press Star. Email him at mmiller@toledofreepress.com.

Tags: bariatric surgery, Coke, Fricker's, Lighting The Fuse, McDonald's, Michael S. Miller, Wendy's

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 10th, 2013 at 6:55 pm and is filed under Lighting The Fuse, Opinion.
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Walking may be one of the more underrated and least glamorized forms of exercise, but there are many songs devoted to it.

Johnny Cash gave us “Walk the Line.” Dionne Warwick advised us to “Walk On By.” Nancy Sinatra said, “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”

There are dozens more*, including songs about walking that do not use the word in the title. The one-hit wonders The Proclaimers, in “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles),” testified they would walk 500 miles for their girl; the Bee Gees bragged about their walking prowess in “Stayin’ Alive”; and Green Day, in “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” wails, “I walk alone, I walk alone.”

That’s one song I don’t sing much these days, as while I am walking more than at any time in my adult life, I am rarely by myself.

Since Sept. 1, as part of a major lifestyle change that included bariatric sleeve surgery on Sept. 18, I have walked every day, at least one mile but up to as many as four. I started at 380 pounds; as of this writing, I am just under 298 pounds, so I have left a lot of excess weight on the sidewalks and walking paths of my journey.

From the beginning, when I started talking about the decision with my primary care physician, or doctor, as I call him, I have been told and retold that exercise is the key to weight loss, in conjunction of course with watching what you eat. Since I have been living for two months on liquid medical protein with the slow reintroduction of food through such mushy treats as sugar-free applesauce, low-fat cottage cheese and baby food, the eating side is under control. Post-surgery, I have about 15 percent of my original stomach left, so there is no real choice.

The baby food weeks were particularly challenging. I would stand in front of the shelves at Meijer, considering jars of brightly colored Gerber products like a sommelier studying a collection of fine wine. I would choose a jar, hold it up to the light and read the label, considering the color, consistency and ingredients. I do not recommend the herb chicken, but the lasagna was palatable, as were most of the vegetable flavors.

When I first started walking, even a few blocks would have me hobbling like an old dray horse trying to navigate a road filled with nails, broken glass and land mines. But with the proper shoes and an attitude blending equal parts determination and resignation, each day got better.

I bought an inexpensive pedometer and marked off paths of one, two and three miles around my neighborhood at home and around the Downtown offices of Toledo Free Press. I have met more neighbors and seen more of my town in eight weeks than I had in ten years. At home, my wife, two young sons and our little dog, too, all march along, enjoying the weather when it allows. Downtown, there is an endless stream of people to watch and traffic to dodge. I see people entering and leaving The Swamp Shop at Fifth Third Field, scurrying up and down sidewalks and keeping Downtown’s heartbeat steady.

On bad weather days, I hike a path at a local mall, weaving around shoppers and trying to keep pace with the walking seniors.

One phenomenon accompanying bariatric surgery is “The Halo Effect.” This is a ring of influence that sees people around the patient becoming more aware of their own health and taking positive action. This has been gratifyingly true in my heightened case; as I have made this journey a public story, I have heard from hundreds of people who have had the surgery, are contemplating the surgery or have someone in their lives who might need to explore the possibility. Reader support has been comforting and terrific, but I owe even more gratitude to the friends and family who have supported me in ways great and small, from checking in through texts and Facebook to actively walking with me. I will make the effort with or without a walking partner, but it does make it easier and seem to go faster while talking to someone, and my pace is usually more intense.

I knew when I started on this path that the journey would last forever. Knowing there are people walking beside me makes it more enjoyable and fun. At 82 pounds down, I am halfway to my goal. With my family, friends and “The Halo Effect,” I have faith that goal is not only attainable, it is sustainable.

As I hum to my diminishing belly as I circle the blocks, “Because you’re mine, I walk the line.”

Michael S. Miller is editor in chief of Toledo Free Press and Toledo Free Press Star. Contact him at mmiller@toledofreepress.com.

*The Walking Top 40 includes “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves, “Walk on Water” by Eddie Money, “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed, “Jesus Walks” by Kanye West, “Walking on the Sun” by Smash Mouth, “Walk This Way” by Aerosmith (with Run-DMC if you went to high school in the ’80s), “Walking on a Thin Line” by Huey Lewis and The News, “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn, “Walking on Broken Glass” by Annie Lennox, “Walk the Dinosaur” by Was (Not Was), “Walk of Life” by Dire Straits and “Walk Like a Man” as suggested by The Four Seasons and Bruce Springsteen. You can be “Walking to New Orleans” with Fats Domino (who also offered “I’m Walkin’” and “I Want to Walk you Home”), “Walking on the Moon” or “Walking in Your Footsteps” with The Police, “Walk Like an Egyptian” with The Bangles, “Walk Hard” with Dewey Cox  and go “Walkin’ After Midnight” with Patsy Cline. Roy Orbison, U2 and Neil Young all urged us to “Walk On.” Matt Monro, Kelly Clarkson and Five Finger Death Punch all suggested we “Walk Away.” A number of sentimental fellows, from Elvis Presley to Jerry Lewis, offer solace that “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

Tags: Aerosmith, Annie Lennox, bariatric surgery, Bee Gees, Bruce Springsteen, Dewey Cox, Dionne Warwick, Dire Straits, Eddie Money, Elvis Presley, Fats Domino, Fifth Third Field, Five Finger Death Punch, Green Day, Huey Lewis and the News, Jerry Lewis, Johnny Cash, Kanye West, Katrina and the Waves, Kelly Clarkson, Lighting The Fuse, Lou Reed, Marc Cohn, Matt Monro, Michael S. Miller, Nancy Sinatra, Patsy Cline, Roy Orbison, Run-DMC, Smash Mouth, The Bangles, The Four Seasons, The Halo Effect, The Police, The Proclaimers, The Swamp Shop, U2, Was (Not Was)

This entry was posted on Friday, November 2nd, 2012 at 12:00 am and is filed under Lighting The Fuse, Opinion.
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Part 1: Man vs. food

Part 2: Men vs. food

I was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the main table. The anesthesiologist leaned over me with a mask and lied, “I’m going to give you some oxygen.”

I nodded and glanced at the large TV showing my name and case details on the screen. I had chosen to undergo bariatric sleeve surgery to gain control over my dangerously ballooning weight. After six months of preparation and an 18-day liquid diet, I was seconds away from the operation.

It was 10:02 a.m. Sept. 18.

When I woke up at 2:30 p.m., I looked down to see six small incisions where 85 percent of my stomach used to be. I tried to swim to consciousness, but kept falling back asleep.

The first words I heard were from a nurse, who was talking to another nurse. About me.

“His blood pressure is way up,” she said. “At 190. We’re giving him meds to try to get it down.”

I groggily glanced over my left shoulder and saw the red flashing digital 190, which closely resembled the numbers on the hospital scale.

“Wow,” I said with a mushy mouth, “I went into surgery at 350 pounds and I’m down to 190! Nice!”

The nurse smiled and said, “No, that’s your blood pressure. We just gave you Lopressor to help get it back down.”

Even at my heaviest weight, I had been blessed with relatively healthy inner workings. No diabetes and blood pressure that reliably hovered at 120 over 80. The 70-point spike should have alarmed me, but I wasn’t quite awake and I had one finger on a morphine trigger.

I slipped back into darkness. When I opened my eyes, I was staring at Adam Richman, who hovered several feet over my hospital gurney, wearing jeans, a black jacket and a T-shirt with a cartoon pig chowing down on a rack of barbecued ribs.

“Adam?” I asked.

“That’s right, this is Adam Richman, host of Travel Channel’s ‘Man v. Food.’ I travel the country looking for the greatest pig-out spots, and today I am in beautiful Ann Arbor, Mich., where the wolverines fight and the students devour some of the Midwest’s biggest and best sandwiches and burgers,” Richman said.

“Did you bring me anything to eat?” I asked.

“No, dude, your pig-out days are over,” he said, smiling sympathetically.

“You know, I watched an hour of your show every day while I was on my presurgery diet,” I said, still hoping he was hiding a cheeseburger, plate of honey barbecue chicken wings or even a loaf of Zingerman’s fresh bread.

“Wasn’t that tortuous, watching me eat a 6-pound burrito while you were choking down 8-ounces of medical protein?” he asked.

“It actually made me feel better, seeing all those eats and vicariously watching you destroy a 10-patty burger and 4 pounds of fries,” I said. “I can’t explain it, it just helped.”

“Well, good for you, dude,” Richman said. “I just stopped by to wish you well and let you know you can do this. It’s an important decision and you are doing a proud thing for yourself and your family. It will be tough, but I and many others support you.”

“Thanks,” I croaked, teary-eyed. “Have you ever thought about losing a few pounds through diet or surgery?”

“F*ck that,” he said. “Now, I’m off to Boston to eat a 10-pound lobster and 2 gallons of ice cream!”

I shook my head, and he was gone.

“Adam,” I mumbled, fighting to wake up. “Pig-outs. Travel Channel. Dagobah System.”

Another hour had passed and my blood pressure numbers were down to 160.

I vaguely remember my wife and surgeon stopping by to check on me. Everything had gone smoothly, I was assured.

The nurse patted my hand and two assistants said hello as they began to wheel my bed toward the elevator and to my room. On the 10-minute journey, both women talked nonstop about what they were having for lunch and what their dinner plans were.

Solitary confinement

When my head was mostly clear, I took stock of my surroundings. I was in a small private room. I had an IV in my right hand, heart and vital signs monitors taped to my chest, oxygen tubes in my nose and a catheter draining urine from my body.

“Huh,” I thought. “I wonder how that is hooked up.”

Then I remembered/realized the catheter tube had been inserted through (for the purposes of this discussion, I will refer to the organ as “Sinbad”) and up into my bladder. I had been asleep for the unnatural act of insertion and tried to dwell on less excruciating details, like the severe pressure I felt in my chest, as if someone were leaning on my sternum with both elbows.

When the first nurse appeared, I described the pain and asked if I were having a heart attack.

“No,” she said, “that is from the CO2 they pump into your body while they operate. It takes a day or two for that pressure to dissipate.”

Between the needles, pressure, soreness and that catheter, which had taken on a Stephen King quality of evil in my head, all I wanted to do was sleep. Until the nurses woke me up to take a blood sample. And then when they woke me up to take my vital signs. And then when they woke me up to ask how I was sleeping.

In addition to those challenges, I had last taken a drink of water and eaten some plain low-fat yogurt at 6 p.m. Monday. It was now 8 a.m. Wednesday and even what remained of my stomach was wondering what the hell was going on.

The IV was keeping me hydrated, but the direct oxygen was drying out my mouth to the point where I was ready to start spitting up tumbleweeds. The nurses brought me little swabs my wife could dip in water to keep my lips from cracking like the roads in South Toledo, and eventually a nurse hooked up the oxygen to the CPAP breathing machine I brought from home. That handy device has a built-in humidifier, so I was much more comfortable.

TLC

A quick word about the nurses. The two primary nurses working with me were responsive, empathetic and absolutely helped me make the most of a tough situation. One of the nurse’s husbands had undergone bariatric surgery, so she knew exactly what road I was on and was a wonderful sounding board. I know not everyone has the same experience, but every nurse and assistant that aided me was a great help and a tremendous presence.

20 seconds of weirdness

Which is why I can forgive my main nurse for lying to me about the catheter. About 24 hours after the surgery, the IV, oxygen and monitors were removed. All I needed was to have the catheter taken out and I would be able to start walking to avoid blood clots and to keep the weight loss moving. She came in with an assistant (it seemed like every time I was at my most naked/vulnerable/grossly displayed, the assistant was some gorgeous young woman. I suppose a little humiliation is good for the soul). She took Sinbad in hand and said, “OK, this is going to feel weird for about 20 seconds.”

Then, she did the Band-Aid Yank and pulled the entire catheter from my bladder, out my urethra and on its long(ish) journey to freedom. She pulled it like a falling man pulls a ripcord on his parachute. She yanked it like an angry man trying to get his lawnmower started.

Later, when my wife joined us, the nurse said, “Your husband cried like a baby when I removed his catheter.”

“I did not,” I defended myself. “I screamed like a little girl. There’s a difference.”

Going home

About 48 hours after the surgeons reduced my stomach to about the size of a small peeled banana, I was released from the hospital. The liquid diet finally ended at 30 days, when cottage cheese and one scrambled egg were introduced to my diet. I never dreamed I would be so excited about cottage cheese. Low-fat cottage cheese. I have been blessed with tremendous support from friends, family and that strange family of friends on Facebook. I have cried randomly, been moody and missed more work than I wanted to.

For one short period, I would stare at the fridge or pantry, take a bite of something I could not have, and do what I called “The Clinton” — chew it until every atom of flavor had been savored, then spit it out in the sink without swallowing anything.

I started Sept. 1 at 380 pounds. As of this writing, Oct. 2, 14 days after the surgery, I am at 315 pounds. I am wearing shirts I haven’t taken out of the closet in two years. I am walking two or more miles every day.

I get tired, but I feel … better.

When my pal Adam Richman beats a food consumption challenge, he makes a capital “M” with his fingers and declares, “Today, in the eternal struggle between man vs. food, man wins!”

I am nowhere near ready to declare that victory yet, but when I break 300 pounds, and then 250, I am going to make a lowercase “m” and declare temporary victory in my eternal struggle.

And I will have earned it.

Michael S. Miller is editor in chief of Toledo Free Press and Toledo Free Press Star. Email him at mmiller@toledofreepress.com.

Tags: Adam Richman, bariatric surgery, Lighting The Fuse, Man v. Food, Michael S. Miller, University of Michigan

This entry was posted on Friday, October 5th, 2012 at 12:00 am and is filed under Lighting The Fuse, Opinion.
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Part 1: Man vs. food

Overwhelmed with emotion, teary-eyed, I gently ran my fingers along the skin of my old ally.

“Goodbye, Old Friend,” I said, caressing and connecting for the very last time.

My stomach purred in response.

I lay back on the gurney, an IV needle embedded in my right hand.

I was sedated, holding my wife’s hand, just minutes from the surgery that would remove 85 percent of my stomach in an effort to control my dangerously rising weight.

The physician’s assistant asked what I did for a living, and when I told him I was an editor at a Toledo newspaper, he assumed I meant The Blade and began an enthusiastic monologue about reading the daily newspaper online. I did not correct him; it did not seem wise to piss off the man with the long needle.

My surgeon stopped by the curtained area and asked, “Ready to rock and roll?”

I said I was, but inside, as the sedatives took effect, I felt more like a light waltz.

I was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the main table. The anesthesiologist leaned over me with a mask and lied, “I’m going to give you some oxygen.”

I nodded and glanced at the large TV with my name and case details on the screen.

It was 10:02 a.m. Sept. 18.

Baby steps

The journey to bariatric surgery began Jan. 3 with the first of six monthly visits to my primary care physician, or “doctor,” as I call him. Each of the visits focused on my progress, or lack thereof, with breaking bad habits. Fast food, carbohydrates, soda, a sedentary lifestyle. Between those visits, I worked with clinicians at the University of Michigan Adult Bariatric Surgery Program. This included visits with nutritionists, physical therapists, support groups, chat rooms with former and future patients, psychiatrists and more doctors.

There are three main options for bariatric surgery. It is a huge decision, and being immersed in the culture for six months, often with mandatory spousal attendance, helped me prepare mentally and begin making necessary changes.

As described by the UM program, “LAP-BAND Surgery, also known as laparoscopic gastric banding, is a restrictive surgical procedure whereby the size of the opening from the esophagus to the stomach is reduced by a silicone band, decreasing the amount of food that can be comfortably eaten.”

The most drastic option is “Roux-en-Y gastric bypass: First, the surgeon creates a small stomach (permanently reduced to an egg-sized pouch) to restrict food intake. Next, a Y-shaped section of the small intestine is attached to the pouch to allow food to bypass the lower stomach, the duodenum (the first segment of the small intestine), and the first portion of the jejunum (the second segment of the small intestine).”

So the LAP-BAND is the least invasive and is technically reversible. The gastric bypass is common, but all that rerouting made me nervous. I also did not like the idea of my disconnected stomach slowly atrophying in my abdomen for the rest of my life. Like Goldilocks looking at two extremely opposite options and seeking a middle ground, I gravitated to the sleeve gastrectomy.

“Gastric Sleeve Resection is a restrictive form of bariatric surgery that helps with weight loss by limiting food intake and controlling hunger sensations. The procedure calls for removing about 85 percent of the stomach, while keeping both ends of the stomach intact.  It does not involve cutting or rerouting the small intestine and it does not require an implanted weight loss device.”

Choosing sleeve surgery would mean more work for me, but I wasn’t looking for a panacea, I was looking for a tool to help me turn my personal Titanic around.

To accomplish the surgery laparoscopically, with six small incisions instead of one big abdomen slice, I was required to lose enough weight to shrink my liver down so it would not be an obstruction during surgery. I was supposed to embark on a 14-day liquid diet, but I’m an orderly man, so I chose to start Sept. 1. That would give me four extra days and an easy way to keep track of the liquid diet. That daily diet consisted of three 8-ounce, sugar-free, high-protein drinks, with between-drink small servings of oatmeal, nonfat yogurt and sugar-free mini pudding cups.

In other words, I was consigning myself to the Gulag, not just for 18 days before surgery, but for the four weeks following it as well.

The Goodbye Tour

Knowing that tremendous sacrifices awaited, I decided to say goodbye to my favorite foods in style. I asked three of my closest friends, all of whom enjoy a good repast as much as I do, to join me on my Goodbye Food Tour.

We started at noon Friday at Tony Packo’s, enjoying the multiple Mother of All Dogs for the final time. That afternoon we went to Rave Cinemas at Levis Commons to see a movie and enjoy one last feedbag bucket of movie theater popcorn with a depth-charge size soda. For dinner, we visited Fricker’s for a plate of my favorite deep-fried, honey barbecue chicken wings, with curly fries and more soda.

I went to bed overfull but determined to soldier on.

Saturday started with an early breakfast at a local diner, with a skillet full of scrambled eggs, hash browns, a number of selections from our pal the pig and a pile of shredded cheese. Lunch was at Burger Bar 419, where we shared fried cheese and some of the best gourmet cheeseburgers in Toledo.

After another movie (with another bucket of popcorn and another large soda), we went to Five Guys Burgers and Fries in Rossford for another version of my favorite burger. I knew I was slowing down when I did not finish my fries. Nonetheless, we traveled to Mr. Freeze for a large turtle sundae, which should be the final ice cream I enjoy, on that scale, for the rest of my life. After a few hours, we met at Buffalo Wild Wings on Central Avenue, for a last round of appetizers and chicken wings.

For the first time in my adult life, I left the table with uneaten wings on my plate.

Sunday morning was a last order of our neighborhood bakery’s best doughnuts. A late lunch took place at Olive Garden, with an endless pasta bowl order that ended midway through a third bowl.

There were still days before Sept. 1, but I used those days to start getting used to the protein drinks, with one solo goodbye stop each day during the week: The Blarney Irish Pub, McDonald’s, Spaghetti Warehouse and Wendy’s.

I will spare you those gastronomic details.

That left Friday, Aug. 31, as an opportunity for one final meal. That night was reserved for my wife and me, and I knew where I wanted to go: Final Cut at the Hollywood Casino Toledo. Not only did a steakhouse date night appeal to me, I thought the name was more than appropriate. And I knew exactly what I planned to order — the 64-ounce porterhouse, a cut of steak so big it comes with its own Final Cut dog tag, which I planned to carry with me as a talisman against the upcoming hunger and fight.

Every bite of that steak was exquisite. I lingered on the final cut as long as I could. Swallowed. Paid the bill. Went to bed knowing that the next 30-plus days would be the biggest challenge of my adult life.

The liquid diet

It turned out to be even more difficult than I expected. The 8-ounce liquid medical protein drinks, Unjury, come in flavors of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and chicken soup. It would be easy to mock and deride Unjury, but it’s not the company’s fault. The drinks could have tasted like Willy Wonka’s Special Oompa Loompa Extract and it would still curdle under the heat of the resentment, despair and ravishing hunger I brought to the table. Each day for 18 pre-surgery days, as the rest of the world around me ate what it wanted, my self-exiled liquid diet had my betrayed stomach roaring like a lion with thorns in all four paws. Not consuming was one thing; not chewing was another. If I met my protein goals for each day I was allowed a few celery sticks or cucumber slices, but for a man used to eating cheeseburgers for snacks, every day was like a crawl through a desert.

The only solace was from my wonderful wife, who, in sympathy, went on the 18-day liquid diet with me. It was a major help to look across the table and see her grimacing as I did. I was moody, depressed, angry at myself and restless without meat, bread, pasta, potatoes, all of the glorious food I centered my life around.

But on Day Five, an interesting thing happened. I took that restless energy and began walking. Just a few blocks at first, then a mile, then two miles a day. We took long family walks with our young sons, spending an hour or so together on sidewalks, nature trails and park walking paths.

And while I did not at first see a difference, I started to feel … better. I quietly tried on one shirt size smaller and found it fit. Walking got easier. I still missed eating, but I did not feel as empty as I once did.

Throughout the 18-day diet, I intentionally stayed away from our bathroom scale, which wasn’t meant to weigh anyone my size. I believed it held only false promises.

So it wasn’t until the morning of the operation that I stepped on the hospital scale.

The end of the beginning

I weighed 380 pounds on Aug. 31. The morning of Sept. 18, I was down to 339.8 pounds, a 40-pound drop.

My smile was so wide, my Blade-loving IV inserter said I looked like I won the lottery.

I was wheeled into the operating room and transferred to the main table. The anesthesiologist leaned over me with a mask and lied, “I’m going to give you some oxygen.”

I nodded and glanced at the large TV with my name and case details on the screen.

It was 10:02 a.m. Sept. 18.

When I woke up at 2:30 p.m., I looked down to see six small incisions where 85 percent of my stomach used to be.

I tried to swim to consciousness, but kept falling back asleep.

The first words I heard were from a nurse, who was talking to another nurse. About me.

“His blood pressure is way up,” she said. “At 190. We’re giving him meds to try to get it down.”

Michael S. Miller is editor in chief of Toledo Free Press and Toledo Free Press Star. Email him at mmiller@toledo freepress.com.

Tags: bariatric surgery, Lighting The Fuse, Michael S. Miller

This entry was posted on Friday, September 28th, 2012 at 8:38 am and is filed under Lighting The Fuse, Opinion.
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