It’s the third anniversary of my gastric bypass surgery. I’ll be honest: I’d love to celebrate it with a hot dog and a milkshake. I splurge sometimes and have milkshakes, but my lack of a stomach can no longer process hot dogs so well. If I strip off the casing and just eat the meat-stuff inside. Come on, who wants to do that? It gives you too much time to consider what’s inside there in the first place, lol!
I went to weigh in today before my telehealth appointment on Monday morning with Dr. Janelle. I weighed in at 198.5. I was excited. It was the first time the scale has been below 202 in weeks, usually it’s closer to 205. I’ve plateaued again. I’m not working out. I don’t have the time or energy. I know, I know… Health first and all that jazz. But there’s been a lot going on. Like since last November. And I can’t seem to get back on track. Even with two gym memberships, I was still hanging out between 202-205 pounds. The doctor tells me if it’s muscle mass, it’s okay. All I know are the numbers I see on the scale each day. And they’re disheartening because they’re over 200 pounds.
When did this happen to me? I went into this surgery three years ago not giving a flip about numbers. Only caring that this surgery might give me my life back. And it did. I can tie my shoes without crying. I can take long walks without having an asthma attack. I can go through airport security without being patted down because of the way my skin hangs on my body while trapped in clothes. I can sit on an airplane without a seatbelt extension. I can fit on roller coasters. When did I stop celebrating these life-altering events? More importantly, why did I stop celebrating them?
I love my gastric bypass surgeon, but he needed me to reach a number. He chose 100 pounds. I said okay. I got there. It felt awesome. I could go into a doctor’s office and weigh in and be under 200 pounds with clothes on! Not only at home naked on my scale in my darkened bedroom. And 202-205 is nothing to be ashamed of. Except that I am. Because I was at 292. I’ve gained 10-13 pounds, depending on the day.
Last November, I started stress-eating. That’ll do it every time. I also quit working out. I was too busy. I was trying to crank out my memoir after working with a writing coach. I wanted to try to pass it by agents this year. Then January came. And within the first two weeks of 2026, I had two manuscripts accepted for publication. My collection of short stories with Mountain State Press on January 2 and a chapbook of poetry with Finishing Line Press on January 14. I was on cloud nine! All the hard work I’ve put in for the past few years, coming to fruition like that was nothing short of amazing!
Meanwhile, my sister’s doublewide had burned down and she was homeless. I’m not sure how she lived with those stresses, because I was ninety minutes away, and it nearly did me in. We didn’t get her into more permanent housing until April.
By which point, my father had called me one day and told me he had throat cancer. A lot of you know, Rex and I have had a complicated relationship. He was more or less absent until I was in my early 20s. We still had times when things weren’t going great — but so did Mom and I, and she was there my whole life. The night he called about having cancer, we talked. He said some things, and I told him we just needed to focus on the present. And I meant that. He had a tremendous battle ahead of him. Thinking about the past wasn’t doing anyone any good. He passed away on June 5. I posted about it on Facebook and someone in the family demanded that I take it down. So, I did. Don’t ask me why. Because I still don’t know. It interrupted the grieving process. I was told later I could put it back up, with the stipulation that I call him “Rex,” and not “dad.” I told this person he was my father and I’d call him whatever I wanted to. I was — am — his child. I didn’t put it back up. Although I really needed to. For my well-being. So, instead, I guess I’m putting it in this blog. Like I said, it was a complicated relationship, but I loved him. And he loved me. We said it that night on the phone. He didn’t want me to come see him (he lived in Idaho), and I’ll admit, that hurt; it felt like I was being rejected again. But I accepted it. I still hoped, but I knew instinctively, once Rex Anderson made up his mind about something like that, it wasn’t going to happen. Andersons can be stubborn. (So can Littles. It’s no wonder I’m wired the way I am. I got it from both parents, I guess.)
And in between all that, I’ve been reading and writing a lot. I’ve read my short story collection so much, I feel like I have it memorized in places. I know the sound of the characters’ voices: they speak to me, even when I’m not reading the manuscript. (If I weren’t a writer, I’d probably be committed for saying something like that. Thank God for being a writer!) I spent two months revising it. I had a few good friends who gave their opinions on what needed to be tweaked. I found myself rewriting stories — some because I discovered I had erroneous information in them (an old man can’t be watching baseball one night and go rifle hunting for deer the next in Virginia in-season, for example) — and some because the characters called for it. I ended up with a prologue and an epilogue, both about the character Josie Morgan, who started off in a one-off story many years ago while my friend Lynne and I were in Miami waiting to go on a cruise (the story was fewer than 1000 words and everyone who read it wanted to know more about Josie — I said there was no more about Josie, that story was it, and then she reached out in another peace I was writing in our morning writing group and it turned out there was a whole lot more to her story, just not in Miami).
And I’ve had two root canals since December. And I have another extraction next month.
Two of my three cats have had major health issues/scares. They both have heart murmurs. Ichabod had to have thirteen teeth extracted and Baltic had a big heart scare that required a kitty cardiologist sort of situation in Johnson City.
There’s been a seemingly endless list of “things” going on in my life that have demanded huge amounts of time and energy. So, yeah, I let some weight creep back in. And I hate thinking about it. Which means I hate going to the gym even more, because now I see it as a place to go because I’m a failure.
Then I get angry with myself. Gaining thirteen pounds Does not make me a failure. It makes me a backslider, maybe, but I believe in grace. So why do I find it so hard to extend grace to myself? I mean, come on, Chrissie! Look at all the stuff you’ve battled through in the past six months.
So, this isn’t the cheery post I made on Facebook to commemorate my three-year anniversary. This is me coming clean with myself. And saying 205 pounds is not the end of the world. Also, it’s not the end of my journey. I can still work to get that number to go lower. I just need to learn to breathe again. And commit to cleaner eating. And exercise. No matter how much I hate going to the gym…
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