dianeseattle
Member
I had RYGB with an open incision almost 13 years ago (August 20, 2007). The sleeve was not available to me. At that time, here in Seattle, there was one surgeon who was nationally regarded as one of the best bariatric surgeons in the world. He was a surgeon who did many other procedures. His waiting room was always overflowing with people seeking surgical help.
I don't remember how I chose him, but I had been to a few seminars at other medical centers and it didn't look like I was going to be able to qualify for their programs. I looked into university studies as well. Most big cities have a world-class hospital and in Seattle, it's the UW, or yoo-dub, or the University of Washington Medical school, which had campuses all over the city.
I was on Medicaid and Medicare already from a disability, already on SSDI, with limited options. If I wanted to wait a year, the surgery would be fully covered by my insurance at the UW Hospital. But if I could find a way to get that extra 20 percent that wasn't covered, I could have it at Virginia Mason, where this storied surgeon worked. As I was trying to decide, there was a story about him on national news, focusing on the fact that he was enlightening people to his belief that weight-loss surgery was, literally, a cure for diabetes. Doctors are not allowed to use the word "cure" unless they have one. It's malpractice to suggest you can cure anyone of a disease unless you can prove it medically. Fortunately, because he was working on a UW campus, records were being kept on his performance and results.
I then made my decision to see him, and I applied for Charitable Care to the hospital to have the balance covered by them. They accepted me and I never paid a dime for anything I needed, including a year of post-op nutritional follow-up. Because of his successes & his claims of a cure, the UW had also applied for federal money to begin a study called LABS, Longitudinal Assessment of Bariatric Surgery. You can read the results online or in the JAMA. I enrolled in the study and was followed up for 7 years. I'd still be in that program if the feds hadn't cut the funding. It's awesome to have the results, though. Every tiny detail is covered, from my bloodwork to my physical improvements.
I was at low-risk for diabetes based on my bloodwork, but everyone in my family had died with diabetes contributing to their death, as well as cardiovascular disease (stroke, in particular). I had watched it happen in front of my eyes, including with my father, who almost died one day in my car when I was driving us around to the tourist attraction he had created (the landscape of Rocky Reach Dam in Central Washington). He was barely conscious when I took him to the hospital and had almost no blood pressure. A year or two later, he did die, in November 2006. That was the day I decided to find a way to change my health. I loved my dad so much. But as I watched him decline, growing weaker even outside the hospital, having his livelihood taken away (he was a famous landscape gardener and floriculturalist) because he could no longer stand for more than a few minutes, it was a wake -up call. I knew he wouldn't want doctors doing all the things to me that they were doing to him.
In fact, the day he died, I was packing to get on the train to go see him in the hospital. I was also taking a class that was required for the Voc Rehab program I was in. I was told I could not skip the class, even though it was the last one and my mom had phoned a day or so earlier, leaving me a message saying the home-healthcare person had been by and told her my dad didn't have much longer to live, even though he was riding his scooter to McDonald's to meet the guys for coffee and going to his garden every day to do what he could do. Close your eyes while I write the next word: motherfuckers wouldn't let me skip the final class, which wasn't even instructional. It was just a day when all the students presented their work. They didn't need me. I was part of a team. They could get along without me.
So after class I was packing to take the 3 o'clock train when my sister called and said she'd just left the hospital after seeing Dad, but they'd phoned her and told her to come back because he'd had a cardiac event. I could barely breathe. I was just a few hours away from his bedside. But 10 minutes later another sister phoned and told me he didn't make it. The nurses wanted him to get out of bed and take a few steps for the sake of his circulation. He kept saying he couldn't but they insisted. As soon as they got him vertical, he had a massive heart attack and fell to the floor and died.
Didn't intend to go into this, but when she called and told me that, I let out a scream I didn't know I had inside me. I couldn't stop screaming, wailing, crying. Then I got my roommate, who was my exhusband, to take me to find my son at work so I could tell him and bring him back with me so he could also pack for the train, which still had to happen. I could barely walk from the car to the building where he worked. I wanted to die on the spot.
Anyway, that's when life as I knew it ended forever. But it was also the moment that turned into my motivation to get healthy, to lose weight, to have RYGB surgery and be there for my child until he was a very old man so he wouldn't have to feel the pain I felt for so much time after Dad died. I mean, it destroyed my family. He was the bridge between us all. We were able to cross over our differences and be civil to each other and socialize and act like human beings. When Dad was gone, everyone lost accountability. They didn't want to please anyone anymore. We each had our demons and we just couldn't care less about the ones that possessed our siblings. I had five sisters and two brothers and a mother who was still alive, but without Dad, I no longer had a family. I felt like I was living in a nest of vipers.
Boy, I hope someone got something out of this story. I took a sharp left turn from what I had intended to write and now am going to take a break to put my emotions back together before I write again. My intention was to talk about sleeve v. RYGB. I'll do that later.
I don't remember how I chose him, but I had been to a few seminars at other medical centers and it didn't look like I was going to be able to qualify for their programs. I looked into university studies as well. Most big cities have a world-class hospital and in Seattle, it's the UW, or yoo-dub, or the University of Washington Medical school, which had campuses all over the city.
I was on Medicaid and Medicare already from a disability, already on SSDI, with limited options. If I wanted to wait a year, the surgery would be fully covered by my insurance at the UW Hospital. But if I could find a way to get that extra 20 percent that wasn't covered, I could have it at Virginia Mason, where this storied surgeon worked. As I was trying to decide, there was a story about him on national news, focusing on the fact that he was enlightening people to his belief that weight-loss surgery was, literally, a cure for diabetes. Doctors are not allowed to use the word "cure" unless they have one. It's malpractice to suggest you can cure anyone of a disease unless you can prove it medically. Fortunately, because he was working on a UW campus, records were being kept on his performance and results.
I then made my decision to see him, and I applied for Charitable Care to the hospital to have the balance covered by them. They accepted me and I never paid a dime for anything I needed, including a year of post-op nutritional follow-up. Because of his successes & his claims of a cure, the UW had also applied for federal money to begin a study called LABS, Longitudinal Assessment of Bariatric Surgery. You can read the results online or in the JAMA. I enrolled in the study and was followed up for 7 years. I'd still be in that program if the feds hadn't cut the funding. It's awesome to have the results, though. Every tiny detail is covered, from my bloodwork to my physical improvements.
I was at low-risk for diabetes based on my bloodwork, but everyone in my family had died with diabetes contributing to their death, as well as cardiovascular disease (stroke, in particular). I had watched it happen in front of my eyes, including with my father, who almost died one day in my car when I was driving us around to the tourist attraction he had created (the landscape of Rocky Reach Dam in Central Washington). He was barely conscious when I took him to the hospital and had almost no blood pressure. A year or two later, he did die, in November 2006. That was the day I decided to find a way to change my health. I loved my dad so much. But as I watched him decline, growing weaker even outside the hospital, having his livelihood taken away (he was a famous landscape gardener and floriculturalist) because he could no longer stand for more than a few minutes, it was a wake -up call. I knew he wouldn't want doctors doing all the things to me that they were doing to him.
In fact, the day he died, I was packing to get on the train to go see him in the hospital. I was also taking a class that was required for the Voc Rehab program I was in. I was told I could not skip the class, even though it was the last one and my mom had phoned a day or so earlier, leaving me a message saying the home-healthcare person had been by and told her my dad didn't have much longer to live, even though he was riding his scooter to McDonald's to meet the guys for coffee and going to his garden every day to do what he could do. Close your eyes while I write the next word: motherfuckers wouldn't let me skip the final class, which wasn't even instructional. It was just a day when all the students presented their work. They didn't need me. I was part of a team. They could get along without me.
So after class I was packing to take the 3 o'clock train when my sister called and said she'd just left the hospital after seeing Dad, but they'd phoned her and told her to come back because he'd had a cardiac event. I could barely breathe. I was just a few hours away from his bedside. But 10 minutes later another sister phoned and told me he didn't make it. The nurses wanted him to get out of bed and take a few steps for the sake of his circulation. He kept saying he couldn't but they insisted. As soon as they got him vertical, he had a massive heart attack and fell to the floor and died.
Didn't intend to go into this, but when she called and told me that, I let out a scream I didn't know I had inside me. I couldn't stop screaming, wailing, crying. Then I got my roommate, who was my exhusband, to take me to find my son at work so I could tell him and bring him back with me so he could also pack for the train, which still had to happen. I could barely walk from the car to the building where he worked. I wanted to die on the spot.
Anyway, that's when life as I knew it ended forever. But it was also the moment that turned into my motivation to get healthy, to lose weight, to have RYGB surgery and be there for my child until he was a very old man so he wouldn't have to feel the pain I felt for so much time after Dad died. I mean, it destroyed my family. He was the bridge between us all. We were able to cross over our differences and be civil to each other and socialize and act like human beings. When Dad was gone, everyone lost accountability. They didn't want to please anyone anymore. We each had our demons and we just couldn't care less about the ones that possessed our siblings. I had five sisters and two brothers and a mother who was still alive, but without Dad, I no longer had a family. I felt like I was living in a nest of vipers.
Boy, I hope someone got something out of this story. I took a sharp left turn from what I had intended to write and now am going to take a break to put my emotions back together before I write again. My intention was to talk about sleeve v. RYGB. I'll do that later.