Grief Turned to Determination

Someone suggested to me the other day that I should post more about my 104 lbs. weight loss. No, not what I'm doing right now, but the weight I lost after Bookie was born. I'd love to share my story with you, but I'm going to do it in parts.

When I gave birth to Bookie I was 253 lbs. I was only 12 lbs. lighter when I got back from the hospital. Three months after my son was born, I started walking, joined Curves, Weight Watchers and getting serious about changing my life. But at that time, I had no idea I would lose so much weight. I thought I would be lucky if I lost 20 lbs. It wasn't in the realm of possibilities for me because I had failed so many times. I think there are alot of people out there that feel like I did.

How did I get so big? To understand my story, I have to give you some background of what happened to me while I was pregnant. My father was diagnosed with Mesotheilioma, cancer related to asbestos exposure, when I was about 3 months pregnant. He was dying and I assisted my mother from Monday to Friday taking care of him until he passed away. Watching my father suffer the way he did was awful. He suffocated to death, was in alot of pain, and was losing his mind. Watching that made me incredibly grief stricken. I kept it together for everyone, but I turned to food to console myself. I never realized how much I was eating. Plus, I must have been thinking that the weight would just magically disappear when the baby was born. It was a big surprise when I came home from the hospital and was only 12 lbs. lighter.

My father died when my son was 3 months old. I was caring for him and my newborn at the same time. I remember packing everything up every morning and driving 40 miles to my parents house. My mom looked after the baby while I was with my dad. She needed the baby more than I did. I had no idea what to do with him and was dealing with so much grief that I was having trouble bonding. I actually felt at that time that I was trading a life for a life and felt guilty about it.

He was given 6 months to live, but lasted for 9 months to see his first grandson. I remember the day he died. My brother had brought a Johnny Cash CD and we were listening to the music. My father had a hospice worker. She was an angel. She stayed with him the entire time. I sat there for hours. My father was as stubborn as a mule, just like me. It took a really long time for him to pass. He wasn't conscious because of the drugs he was on for pain and anxiety. (He started to lose his mind a bit at the end.) I held his hands for hours and read the new testament to him. That was one thing we shared. I left to take a shower and freshen up and the hospice worker came in to tell us he was passing. We all ran in there as fast as we could. And it was so unlike how I imagined. He just stopped breathing and that was it. I remember screaming and crying. I couldn't control my emotions when it happened. I was praying for an end for so long because of his suffering, but when it happened, it wasn't any easier.

When he passed, my life was instantly different. There was a void. I knew that the coroner had to come to take his body, but I didn't want them to take him. I had an irrational need to stay with him, even though he really wasn't there anymore. (The coroner had to take his body because of the type of cancer he had. They consider Mesotheilioma an "industrial accident" in California, so they have to autopsy the body.) I couldn't leave his side. My husband had to pull me away and take me to another room.

After the funeral, I really started to think about things. I had a newborn, was having the hardest time breastfeeding and feeling very inadequate as a mother. The future that I imagined wasn't going to happen. I was headed toward the path of postpartum depression.

(I'm going to continue this post soon....)

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