HEALING HURTS. Recovering From Morbid Obesity

When I was a little urchin, I loved riding my bike — especially on vacation. My dad would pack our bikes (mine and my big brother’s) and we were free to fly along the roads at the campgrounds. We typically camped in places like Big Sur or Big Basin — places with big trees and lots of greenery. But, sometimes, we’d camp by the beach, which oddly enough in southern California, does NOT mean you pitch your tent in the sand. No, lots of beach campgrounds here are actually set BACK from the surf and sand in manmade gravel wonderlands. I can still hear the sound the tires made as they slowly moved through the park to get to a site.

One particular summer’s day – I must have been about 6 — my brother and I were riding our bikes on the gravel path and my bike tire caught a big rock. DOWN I went. I’m cringing now at the mere thought of it. I landed on my knee and the blood began flowing immediately — almost as quickly as the tears. Fortunately, I was not that far from the RV, so I managed to hobble over for some urgent care from my mom. Only…my mom wasn’t in the motor home; my dad was. Well he, (being an ex-Navy man which, for some unknown reason qualified him to be a trauma medic) grabbed the first-aid kit and got to work on my knee. Now, I don’t know if you recall first aid kits back in the day, but ours included such things as:

• Gauze
• Band-Aids
• Unguentine
• Alcohol
• Peroxide
• Bactine (I loved the smell of that stuff)
• Ace Bandage
• Tongue Depressors
• Tweezers
• Nail Brush <– I am convinced it was a wire brush
• Smelling Salts

In other words, we were well-prepared for any emergency situation.

I sat down and, in between sobs, managed to sputter out the entire, tragic event to my dad who, by the way, seemed curiously disinterested in the part about my knee connecting with the gravel, and more interested in how he was going to extract said-gravel from my knee. I thought it would be okay to leave the little rocks in there, but he was adamant that this would prohibit healing.

So…after irrigating it with some *benign* fluid…acid, I think…he got down to the business of scrubbing my wound with a wire brush. I’m serious. This is how I remember it: Acid and a wire brush. Once my knee was suitably disinfected, it was time to wrap it up. Not wanting me to incur any sort of nasty infection, my dad (in his infinite wisdom) felt it best to completely immobilize my leg with a combination of gauze, tongue depressors and an ace bandage.

I looked like Captain Hook.

BUT, I was patched up, good to go and ready to ride my bike again. Not so easy, considering I couldn’t bend my knee.

A little aside: As a direct result of this incident, I incorrectly learned from my dad that “more is always better” and liberally applied this philosophy to all areas of my life. True.

Okay, back to the bike.

I think I managed to pedal an entire three rotations when…down I went. Again.

If you thought the waterworks were flowing after the FIRST fall, you can only imagine the second one. I now had gravel embedded clear down to my patella. I’m convinced of this. I probably STILL have gravel in there. All I know is, the first aid kit came back out…along with the acid and the wire brush…and I was bandaged from stem to stern and my bike riding days (at least for that trip) were over.

Now, why a I telling you about my double-knee injury? Well, a few days ago I was driving home from work, when it hit me: You never completely recover from a serious injury. There is always a scar.

In the case of my knee, I still bear the scars of that day…nearly 40 years ago. Granted, they have faded, and I can bend my knee without any difficulty now, but I will never forget the event. When I ride my bike the thought of falling and scraping my knee on the asphalt is still there…way in the back of my mind. In other words, I am affected.

Think about that: If a fall from my bike — well, two falls, really — can be that injurious to the body AND mind, imagine what abuse can do to a soul? What sort of injuries did I sustain repeatedly falling off of the diet wagon, instead of a bike?

What about traumatic events, like abuse and addiction? Yes, they leave scars, and those types of injuries affect a person’s ability to function “normally” ever again – if there is such a thing as “normal.”

In my Bariatric After Life,™ I think I have learned to function around my injuries and my addictions, but I do “favor” the old wounds. At this point, it’s out of habit, more than necessity, but like an old sports injury that flairs up when it rains, I do remember the pain.

Which brings me to the idea of recovery from morbid obesity. Talk about SCARS! My shrinkles tell the whole story. It’s true. Sometimes I am angered and disgusted by my loose skin, and I go to that dark place of pain where I blame myself for my condition. But, then…I remember that I can function just fine — yes, even with the shrinkles — and I put my clothes on and welcome the day with arms wide open.

Speaking of which, those arms went through hell to get where they are today. Yes, I said, “hell.” 2-1/2 years ago, I had reconstructive surgery to remove the “bat wings” that I couldn’t accept. That’s pretty major surgery, trust me, and I am left with scars…minor, really, considering the extent of the operation — but they are there, and you know what? There are nights where they just hurt, or they just itch (and I can’t find the place to scratch because the nerves are still a little scrambled.) It can be frustrating and sometimes, I just want to cry when i remember what I’ve gone through. But I don’t. Instead, I take a good look at my arms and my body and realize that I am one of the lucky ones. I can function normally. I don’t look disfigured to the world, and I am blessed — despite my injuries, or maybe because of them. Either way, I bear the scars — emotional and physical — of the ravages of my obesity, and I must never forget my past,

I have come a long way on my journey.

Yes, I was hurt…
…when kids said mean things about me
…when people judged me because of my weight
…when I judged myself because of my weight
…when I medicated the pain with food

But guess what? I have healed — even though I have scars.

My wounds — emotional, physical and spiritual — are like a roadmap from my past, but I don’t need to ever travel those roads again. The road ahead of me might be made of gravel, and I will probably fall and get scraped up again, but I have my first aid kit (with lots of gauze and an ace bandage), and I know that I have many loving people in my life who are willing to “scrub my wounds,” and set me back on the path of wellness.

Yes, sometimes it feels like they are using a wire brush and acid, but I now understand:  Healing Hurts.

I’ll leave you with this:

• Take time to heal
• Be kind to yourself
• Wounds leave scars