Neeven Soodyall

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The past week involved a lot of poking and prodding. It was a dual anniversary: my routine annual physical, and 2-yr lab tests since my VSG. Additionally, I have decided to resume my personal aviation interests in Fort McMurray, Alberta once I start work as a heavy equipment operator in the mines there late March. As my family doctor also does aviation medicals, I tacked one onto my annual physical to dodge the cost of duplicating some of the tests.

From a weight-loss surgery perspective, this represents several positive outcomes. My health is that of a normal person. Except for cholesterol which is marginally higher than the risk-free cap, everything else would not mitigate concern. My blood sugar levels were on the high side of normal, though coupled with other tests for diabetes, failed to indicate the disease. Resting blood pressure was one-twenty over seventy. There were no deficiencies where nutrient levels like iron, vitamin B12, calcium, etc. were concerned suggesting that there was no mal-absorption through my child-sized pouch. At the two-year mark, the surgery has been a resounding success...in more ways than one.

As a teen growing up in racially segregated South Africa, I wanted to become a commercial pilot but, in 1982 when I matriculated from high school, South African Airways did not hire non-Whites as pilots. I rejected their suggestion that I join the country's Air Force and link arms with my own oppressor. Non-Whites could become pilots at their own expense; there just wasn't any work for them with the national carrier. With full legal protection from the government, those jobs were reserved for White pilots leaving the Air Force. Twelve years later as a young, fit lecturer of economics at a University just outside of Johannesburg, I took my first flying lesson on my own dime. Within a year, just before the demise of apartheid, I went on to earn a private pilot's licence with a night rating. Pat myself on the shoulder and snub my nose at the regime, yeah! Then, disaster. Twenty years following high school, I was too fat to fit behind the controls of a Cessna and would not have passed the South African flight medical. I let the licence that I was so proud to have attained against all odds, lapse. By this point in the South African political landscape, we had a non-racial, democratic government in power. I no longer had anybody--Black or White--but myself to blame for the untimely end to my flying days.

In 2009, I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. On the advice of my surgeons I halved my diabetes medication within two weeks following my vertical sleeve gastrectomy in December 2010. As my weight plummeted, so did my blood sugar levels. A month after surgery, I was taken off the medication and haven't needed any in the two years since. I get my blood tested every three months, and have an annual eye inspection for macula degeneration, a side-effect of diabetes. No physician in his right mind would diagnose diabetes if he were to look at my medical history of the past two years. My doctor is the only person who, whilst rubbing his hands with glee at my good lab results, still thinks that I'm controlling the 'silent killer' with diet and exercise. My surgeon, on the other hand, subscribes to the numerous research papers that point to an actual reversal of the disease in countless WLS patients, possibly through a hormonal change after the resection of the fundus. I sill eat chocolate and sweetened frozen yoghurt, and make a point of doing so the week before my blood tests. Mind you, I'm also training with weights which is known to be effective at managing blood sugar levels in diabetics. Now that I can exercise again, I'm not going to stop just to prove a point. I just wish that my doc would stop filling out forms indicating diabetes in my health history. It's already cost me a place in the Canadian Armed Forces.

I'm giddy with excitement at the prospect of flying again. My doc also gave me the nod to resume scuba. Although back on the squash courts, my return was cut short after a hamstring tear. Evidently, it hasn't registered in my brain that I sill have some 50 lb to shed before I can go flat-out. Except for the grey whiskers, all-in-all I seem to have turned back the clock some 20 years.

After 8.5 years of frustration at not finding a decent job in Canada, I applied to the Canadian Armed Forces as a direct entry logistics officer. This was not a consequence of any endearing affinity to a military lifestyle, rather, the sudden realisation that I would rather take a bullet than one more BlackBerry tech support call.

There was an interesting development at my interview. I was informed that they were no longer taking on any more candidates as logistics officers. They invited me to research other positions for which I might be qualified, otherwise consider enlisting as a non-commissioned member, the labourer backbone of the military. It sounded almost like a bait and switch tactic; sell you the penthouse suite over the phone but offer you the basement when you arrive. Not really seeing myself as a welder or floor-scrubber (both better than solving the tech gripes of the snivelling, North American spoilt brat), I indicated that I was only interested in joining as a regular, direct entry officer. We agreed that since I had come all the way, we would continue with the first half of the interview, the personality component, but defer the 'occupation'' component to when I knew for which other officer position I wanted to apply. We could then do that portion of the interview over the phone.

At the end of a very routine interview, I mentioned that I had earned a pilot's licence with a night rating in my native South Africa, at which the captain who was interviewing me asked why I didn't apply as a pilot. I was surprised and said that I didn't think that I was eligible given my age. He quickly checked and confirmed that I was eligible. Age becomes a factor only if the required service period doesn't conflict with the mandatory retirement age of 60. Two years of training and seven years of required service implies that the oldest you can get hired is 51...and I'm 48. You get the picture...

After a week to prepare, I returned for an interview as a pilot. It went very well. It was a rigorous interview about experiences, actions and outcomes. I actually cited many incidents from my past flying and scuba experiences to demonstrate how I react under pressure. When they asked what I knew about life as a military pilot, I recited their brochure citing stages of training, durations, venues and the different aircraft as if I were a recruiter. He had to stop me and ask what research I had done as I seemed to know all of this stuff very well. At the end, they came right out and said that they would ordinarily be sending me on to the next selection phase in Trenton, ON except for a slight glitch in my medicals relating to a diagnosis of type II diabetes back in '09. I scrambled around getting the surgeon in Seattle who did my stomach surgery to say how much weight I had lost, how good I have been with my diet as reflected in normal blood tests, how fit I have become, and how the diabetes was in remission. In fact, all the tests I had to have done as part of my application came out smack in the middle of normal in just about every category.

Over the subsequent two weeks, I submitted the last of the medical and admin. paperwork (including a credit report from South Africa because I have resided outside of Canada within the past decade). Hot-off-the-press news from Thursday gone by, is that they requested a security clearance form because I hold dual citizenship. If all checks out (there's no reason they shouldn't) the CAF will send me to Trenton, ON to take another aptitude test, including an introduction to flying and an exercise in flying a simulator. They will be testing how well candidates react to new information, for example, "this instrument measures the turn rate of the aircraft. Now change heading from North to West at a 30 deg. bank angle." Doing this on a simulator allows them to measure the performance on a computer.

Success in Trenton will culminate in an offer of employment, induction into the military at a ceremony, and finally check-in at the military training base in St. Jean sur Richelieu for 13 weeks of basic officer training, then on to the flying. The basic officer training is more glamorously named than it actually is. This is military boot camp training intended for 18 year olds.

I would never in my wildest dream have imagined that I would be contemplating my childhood ambition to become a professional pilot.

Not to put all my eggs in that basket, a fortnight ago Tuesday I drove 3,200 km roundtrip over 4 days to Ft. McMurray, AB to interview for admission to the haul truck course conducted by Keyano College. This is to operate those monster, 3-storey high pieces of heavy equipment that transport oil-soaked sand from the mines to the refineries. On Thursday I was offered admission to the course starting 7 Jan, and by the time I accepted the offer the next morning, the Jan. class had filled up. I'm therefore scheduled to start training on 4 Feb but am on the waitlist in case of cancellations implying the possibility of a November start date.

Finally, finally, things are looking up! And two years ago when I weighed 360 lb, none of this seemed possible. My 'green' and 'pacifist' street cred is on the line, but some have sold their souls to religion for less.

As much as the final decision to have surgery to disrupt food addiction rests with an obese person, for many there is a circle comprising family and friends that is involved in the discussion. In this chatter, several questions are raised and answered. For example, the answer may be conclusive that the battle against weight gain has been lost and only a drastic, surgical solution is required. There may not be consensus in one's circle about that and even the patient may have doubts, but by the time you're in the operating room and about to undergo voluntarily this restructuring of your digestive system, you've pretty much come to terms with your decision. In the two weeks post-op, as you're sucking down protein shakes for your very survival and battling GERD, you may question your decision, wondering what on earth you did to yourself. As the months roll on and the incisions heal, the GERD resolves and, most-importantly the weight falls miraculously off, you may wonder why you left it this long to get your life back.

Some pre-op questions are left unanswered and indeed are impossible to answer. Will all this weight really come off? What will life be like when it happens? How long will it take?

All the while, there is the circle to which the weight-loss surgery (WLS) recipient feels he owes answers and explanations. In the case where the cost of the surgery was picked up by someone in that circle, there is almost a guilt-driven obsession to vindicate the decision to have WLS. Understandably. But what of the others, like those who are genuinely concerned? What of the cynics, the cheerleaders, the jealous, the curious observers and the followers, all of whom might be looking for inspiration and answers their own questions, or waiting for you to fail? In the furthest recesses of your mind you can't help but feel that you owe everyone a steady update on your progress.

My immediate circle comprises my wife and she was the only person to whom I felt I owed answers. Because we live far away from our relatives, our larger circle in the Pacific Northwest of America is a group of close friends who have been nothing short of supportive. Beyond that, family and friends interact with us through the odd visit but consistently electronically and through social media. The encouragement that I have found through them has been astonishing. If the naysayers exist, they have remained refreshingly quiet. A few of my fellow WLS alumni have not been as fortunate and have endured jealousy and criticism quite unbecoming of civilized society. I hope that it makes them stronger, and that they realise that they control who remains in their circles. Life is tough enough as it is so they should surround themselves with people who make it bearable.

Along my journey that has been almost two years in the making since my first discussion with a surgeon, but 17 months since surgery, I have shared honestly my experience with my extended circle. Most of it has been positive as expected. I also wrote of the pitfalls and frustrations. Despite noble pretensions of wanting to be a role model and inspiration, a latent vanity exists. It may be a defense mechanism against a failed career (I was high school valedictorian, have an Ivy League pedigree, but now work part-time hours for minimum wage in an exploitative call centre whose employment practices are nothing short of a glorified sweat shop), an effort to show that I'm still good at something--writing, if nothing else. In the end, there's a niggling need to explain, justify and vindicate myself to everyone for a decision that was mine to make in the first place.

Hot on the heels of that morbid declaration, I find a positive. Somewhere, somehow, after a lull in motivation mostly influenced by our dreadful Winter, I have started earnestly in the gym again. My initial 13-week program last August produced fantastic results during which I gained muscle mass but lost an overall 22 lb (10 kg), then nothing. During an especially refreshing 9-night vacation in Miami, I threw caution to the wind, ate junk food, wolfed down chocolate and slurped decadent ice cream. I gained 10 lb.

At the start of this week, I found as expected that I would not be as strong as I was last year. Funny that even in Miami during an upper body weight session at the hotel, I was able to lift heavier than I could this past week. It's amazing how quickly the body loses its fitness and strength. Then again, I'm just happy that, since my WLS, I have progressed to the point where just a few sessions in the gym can bring me back to the point where I can set goals again. I saw out my sixth session this week with a bike ride this morning. It was a roller-coaster week at the beginning of which I was nowhere near my maximum training weights from last year, then ended with a lower body session where I could have lifted heavier than ever. I restrained myself to avoid injury but am eying setting some new levels next week. Even as I contemplate that, I'm making longer term plans. Come August and in time for our next onslaught of wet weather, when my membership expires at my current gym which has a swimming pool, I'm thinking of joining one across the road from me which has squash courts. I'll drop in at the pool now-and-again when my knees get shot from the squash and I want that unique cardio lung-burn from swimming.

"Monotony collapses time; novelty unfolds it. You can exercise daily and eat healthily and live a long life, while experiencing a short one. If you spend your life sitting in a cubicle and passing papers, one day is bound to blend unmemorably into the next—and disappear. That’s why it’s important to change routines regularly, and take vacations to exotic locales, and have
as many new experiences as possible that can serve to anchor our memories. Creating new memories stretches out psychological time, and lengthens our perception of our lives." - Joshua Foer, Moonwalking with Einstein.

With a week to go to the anniversary of my bariatric procedure, I have been reflecting quite a lot on what the past 52 weeks have meant to me. They will undoubtedly go down with many favourite cliches. "Got my life back," and, "Given a second chance," come to mind. Suffice it to say that there is no substitute for even improved health, let alone good health. A body that is malady-free after grand weightloss is quite simply a bonus.

52 weeks ago, exactly seven days before a Dec 23rd surgery last year, I was becoming increasingly anxious. It was the third day of a 10-day pre-op diet comprising protein shakes for breakfast and lunch, unlimited greens from lunchtime onward, and a piece of protein and sliver of carbohydrate for dinner. The diet had two purposes: one, to reduce the amount of fat in the liver which would induce a state of ketosis (in which the body seeks fat and protein stores for energy rather than glucose) and, two, to reduce the size of the liver in order to increase the amount of space available for the surgeon to do his work, thereby minimizing the risk of damage to the liver. I was just beginning to cope with the diet as the hunger pangs began to subside. The sensation was not new to me; I had been in similarly happy states of weightloss from countless diets before. This time, it was euphoria mixed with dread and a dose of anxiety. The euphoria was the usual glee that accompanies shedding a few pounds. Also, I was still in joyful disbelief at my good fortune for winning approval of funding for the surgery. At the same time, however, I was harsh on myself for letting myself deteriorate into a preventable condition of obesity that now required surgery to correct. As often as it flashed through my mind that I could do this without medical intervention, the counterarguments flooded my thinking of how many times I had failed at dieting and what enormous secondary benefits followed WLS. High blood pressure, Type II diabetes and sleep apnea are not conditions to be trifled with so their eradication after surgery was very appealing. Finally, who isn't terrified of dying during surgery? Even the statistics of stunning rates of success and almost negligible deaths on the operating table weren't enough to console my fears.

In the week to come I would conquer many psychological lapses. Right up to the point of being wheeled into surgery, I remember thinking that it wasn't too late, that I could cancel the whole show, hop off, go home and just lose the weight by myself. By far the hardest thing to let go of was an ego-driven resistance to submitting to a surgical solution to a mental condition. The reason that I ate and ate more was not because I was hungry but because I was greedy. My stomach could stretch without limit to accommodate my appetite so it had to be cut out. The VSG was the perfect solution: an irreversible procedure resulting in a small pouch that could never stretch. Well, it was either that or a lobotomy for I was surely losing my mind from the distress of not being able to control my eating. I used to have this irrational fear of being separated from food. I dared not take even an hour-long bus ride without carrying a snack for the road. What if the bus broke down on the freeway and it would be more than a few hours before my next meal? What if I was maimed in an accident in Winter and was too injured to eat. I might as well eat the cholocate bar at the start of the journey. I feared hunger more than being attacked by hooligans on the bus or freezing in the snow. With the ample availability of cheap food in North America, the fear of hunger is irrational indeed.

As the year progressed, so did my relationship with food. It was an education in restraint, patience and reassurance. Old habits die hard. Even post-op, food is of paramount importance in one's thinking. Both you and the doctors want you to eat. You want to eat because you're conditioned to want to eat. Then you learn restraint in a most painful way, when you overeat and discover the contraint of your pouch. It only takes a few istances of that gut-wrenching pain when you feel that you cannot breathe from having eaten one bite too many, that you quickly learn to confine your meals to very small portions. The surgeon on the other hand wants you to eat to avoid your body cannibalising itself. Very early in the weightloss experience, you become accustomed to a weekly dip in the scale that seems almost magical. A fair bit of that is fat, a lot of it is water, and a hefty chunk of it is muscle. To counter the latter two, the medical staff wants you to eat good protein, the very eggs, chicken and beef that you once thought was the sole cause of your weightgain. And you start to drink more water. Eventually, the weightloss slows down to a crawl and even reverses, much to your surprise. You wonder how it is possible for your clothing to continue to get loose yet you don't seem to be bothering the scale too much. The education in patience comes from realising that muscle weighs more than fat yet occupies less space. Eventually, some semblance of stomach capacity returns, you can eat a bite more and even drink an entire glass of water. It sometimes leads to panic that you may have stretched your pouch. It's reassuring however when you continue to shed pounds and go out to eat only to find that unless you order from the appetiser menu, you're taking the bulk of your food back home with you.

Such has been my year. The literature that convinces you to consider surgery sometimes promises loss of as much as 75% of excess weight within 6 months. Just before surgery, I weighed about 330 lb. I needed to lose at least 130 lb. At the 6-mth mark, I weighed 263 lb, so had lost 67 lb or, 52% of excess. A year on, I'm 245lb so have lost 85 lb or, 65% of what I needed to. To put things in slightly different perspective, I weighed around 350 lb when I met my surgeon, needed to lose 150 lb and have since shed 105 lb or, 70% of my excess. Although my personal experience has been far below the expectation created by the literature, I could not possibly be happier with where I currently am. I am confident in my skin and my clothes, step out without looking like a miserable slob and am fit beyond my wildest expectation.

Robert Burns himself could not have articulated how my perfectly laid plans to complete 12 consecutive weeks of training could get scuppered. I felt the start of a head cold on day two of my final week of this first chapter of my bodybuilding fantasy, soldiered on to a particularly good effort of upper body training last Wednesday but, was simply wiped out come Thursday. I came crashing down with the whole kit and kaboodle of either allergies or cold. Between coughing, sniffling and sneezing and, blocked sinuses and headaches, it made no sense to aggravate matters in the gym whilst also spreading my germs to anyone other than Shamin. A week later, poor thing is still seeing the tail-end of her malady as I bounce back.

Feeling a little refreshed tonight after work, I thought I'd test the waters with a light, late-night lower body session. It went surprisingly well. A week off may have been just the elixir I needed. I was a little intrepid heading there tonight--almost like meeting a former girlfriend--and planned on scaling things back a notch, going a little lighter on the weights. I found that entirely unnecessary. If anything, I felt stronger and could have gone heavier. Erring on the side of caution, I just picked up where I left off exactly a week ago Wednesday.

Come Friday, fully thirteen weeks would have elapsed since I picked up my first dumbbell. On current form, I'm on track to wrap up the Bill Phillips Body-For-Life challenge this Friday. Needless to say, considering last week's hiccup, I had better not get overly enthusiastic and just take it a-day-at-a-time. But finish it I will, if not this week then next or the next.

What follows in the weeks to come will probably be a continuation of this style of training. Barring the interruption caused by illness, the programme could not have gone more smoothly nor yielded better results. I've shed a further 20+ lb and added muscle to a few places where previously there was either fat or just loose skin. If ever I get around to subjecting myself to surgery to remove excess skin, I know that at least the area of my biceps and triceps won't need any trimming.

So here we are, the night before the last day of the 11th week of my 12-week Body-For-Life effort. Back in July, a week after my 47th birthday, I weighed in at 267.4 lb which was particularly frustrating because it represented a 7-lb gain over two weeks. So much for the removal of 80% of my stomach; I was really going through a rough time controlling my weight.

At the beginning of August, enough-was-enough and I bought a one-year membership of my city's recreation centre which includes used of the gym and pool near our condo and any other city-owned facility. On the recommendation of my bodybuilder buddy, Avzal whose advice I sought for a way to train, I embarked upon Bill Phillips' Body-For-Life weight-training and cardio-vascular fitness regimen.

This morning was a cardio session where I hit the stationary recumbent bike and the pool particularly hard. When I got back home and weighed myself, I was in for a pleasant surprise: 242.2 lb (110 kg), my lowest weight since surgery. Not only does this represent a loss of 109 lb (49.5 kg) since surgery, but also a not-insignificant dip of 25.2 lb (11.5 kg) since I started training 11 weeks ago.

It bears mentioning that this is probably the first time in my life that I've trained so hard, 6-days-a-week, without incurring any injury. Back in the squash days, by now I would have torn a ligament, pulled a muscle or twisted an ankle which would have stuck me on the couch for days with a bag of potato chips and a declining willpower to return to the gym. This time, however, alternating sessions between weight training and cardio, especially riding the bike and swimming rather than running, went a long way towards keeping me injury-free. Even the weight training alternates upper and lower body workouts so there's plenty of time between sessions to rest weary muscles and allow them to recuperate.

Today, Friday, will be a hectic day of activity starting with an upper body weight workout, squash in the afternoon and, table tennis at night. As I no longer have any excuse to avoid playing squash because I am light-enough to not do any injury to myself, and at the coaxing of my friend, Daniel, I will be picking up a racquet tomorrow afternoon for the first time in about 3 years and hitting balls with my friend, Natalie.

Next week will be significant because it will be the very first time in my entire athletic life that I followed to completion on my own a strict training programme. The last time I did that was in the late 80's under the tutelage of squash coach Bob Callaghan at Princeton.

The holy grail of weightloss surgery is reaching goal weight. It is the veritable chalise from which the half-brother of James enjoyed his last swig. The chalise is far shinier if said goal weight is also within the BMI [mass (m) in kilograms divided by the square of height (h) in metres] range that is regarded as normal, namely 20-to-24.9 kilograms per square metre. If you had to translate this into physics terms, it would be the amount of mass your body is applying to a square area (A) the length of whose sides is your height (h). 

The area of this square whose sides are equal to your height is 

A = h x h 

Everyone's body mass index is given by 

BMI = m/(h x h)

       = m/A

The gravitational force (F), measured in Newtons, of planet Earth on any given body with mass (m) is the product of the mass (m) of that body and the gravitational constant (g), i.e.

F = mg 

[g is a constant acceleration of 9.81 m/s-sq whose absolute size is not really relevant to the outcome of the discussion here but I'll include it just to preserve integrity.] 

If I divided both sides of this equation by the area of a square (A) the length of whose sides are my height, I would have 

F/A = mg/A 

I can re-write this as 

F/A = (m/A) x g

      = 9.81 x (m/A) ... [remember we said g = 9.81] 

Earlier, we saw that BMI = m/A so, in reality

F/A = 9.81 x BMI

Now F/A is a well-known physics formula for pressure (P) measured in Pascals (Pa), or, Newtons per square meter. Many of us can relate to the concept of pressure as pounds per square inch, PSI in your car tires.

Since

P = F/A

then

P = 9.81 x BMI

We can re-write this as

BMI = (1/9.81) x P...roughly 1/10 th of P.

What does all this mumbo-jumbo translate into? Well, quite simply, for each and every one of us, our body mass index is nothing other than about one-tenth of the amount of pressure that our body is exerting on the surface of the earth if our mass was spread out evenly over an area that is defined by our heights. If you doubt me, get your kid to show his physics teacher this write-up.

In a weird way, BMI is almost a measure of fairness. It is as if each of us is allocated a quota of 200 - 249 Pa of pressure to apply to the surface of the earth. If we take one-tenth of that to make the math easy and rename it the body mass index, we get to 20-to-24.9 as the yardstick of fairness. However, if you're muscular, well done, you may apply more pressure. If you're fatter, you're putting too much pressure on earth. If you're taller, it's not your fault so you are allocated more area therefore you can carry more weight, but your overall allocation is the same as everyone else's. Dwarf bodybuilders have it the best.

In the grand scheme of things, whatever difference does it make if my BMI is 45 or 70? Either way I'm sickly obese and need surgery to help me lose weight. I'm sure someone somewhere has done a comparison of this strange pressure measurement that we all know fondly as BMI to various health issues and correlated it to all sorts of maladies like diabetes, hypertension, etc. In my humble opinion, BMI is merely a guideline, a point of departure which should be used in conjunction with other measures of health, like body-fat content, exercising pulse rate and resting blood pressure to determine fitness. 

Someone my height of 1.78 m would have to weigh between 63.4 kg and 78.9 kg (139.4 lb - 173.6 lb) to be considered of normal weight by the current BMI yardstick. To put that into personal historical perspective, I weighed 64 kg at 18 in my final year of high school when I couldn't have been much shorter than I am now. Back then, I was Sportsman Of The Year, had decent body definition with very little fat, easily ran 6 km to warm up before 2 hrs of tennis, opened the bowling for my cricket team and could bench more than my body weight. The point is, I was neither scrawny nor unhealthy. In subsequent years as I became a man, I carried 10 more kilograms without appearing particularly overweight, probably looking more muscular if anything. In fact, by 1991 when I was 27 and probably the fittest I've ever been, I weighed 85 kg (187 lb) when I lost an epic 90-minute encounter at the US Squash Nationals in Portland, OR. At the start of the game, my BMI was 26.8 yet nobody in his right mind would have labelled me overweight. As a matter of fact, I shed 3.6 kg (8 lb) of water weight in that game which reduced my post-match BMI to 25.7, just a notch into the 'overweight' category. As you can see, BMI is not a stone-etched guideline, if you'll excuse another metaphor from Hebrew mythology. Nor is it the last word about fitness. A healthy and fit bodybuilder would have a BMI that is way off the charts, whilst a wheezing chain-smoker could have a BMI in the normal range.

Another popular WLS milestone, the loss of 100 lbs, is particularly meaningless given how arbitrary it is. It is probably the Shroud of Turin of WLS, dubious at best. 100 lb is the same as 45.5 kg so what's so special about that? If, like me, you prefer metric units of measure, there's nothing especially magical about the number 45.5. Further, if you were 500 lb at surgery, 100 lb lost is just scratching the surface compared to someone who started at say, 295 lb. At the end of the day, 100 lb lost is only worth jumping about like a Wheel-of-Fortune winner over if you swear allegiance to lbs as your unit of measure. Far more meaningful is the percentage of the mass still needed to be lost to get to goal. For the record, I was 351 lb pre-op and just weighed in at 250 lb at the 37-week mark. I'll be watching my mailbox for my 100 lb prize. However, before I start patting myself on the back, the fact remains that 8 months later, after all this starvation and hypotension and constipation and stalls, I'm only 2/3 of the way to goal. The sobering reality is that my work is still cut out for me.

At the half-way mark in my 12-week Body-for-Life exercise regimen, it suddenly occurs to me that, for better-or-worse, the topics of my conversation with everyone has changed. When I was learning to fly, aviation was always up for discussion. In my scuba days, drinking was all we talked about (and occasionally sharks and shipwrecks; you see, I belonged to a drinking club with a diving problem). Since bariatric surgery, it has become inevitable that people ask after my health. It is typical, topical and quite simply a decent thing to do. The transformation in my appearance has also drawn attention from a few people who hadn't seen me since before the op. One of my neighbours whom I bumped into wasn't too sure but no sooner did her dog growl at me than she recognized who I was and we immediately got on with our old favourite topic of...you guessed it, discrediting our building manager and the condo strata committee. In the middle of lamenting our unkempt garden and unsightly litter, she suddenly changed gears with, "Have you lost a lot of weight, I mean, a lot?" It was a spontaneous comment which she instantly realised might be discourteous--you could see the machinery turning-- then relaxed because it is always a compliment to recognise weightloss but an insult to draw attention otherwise. Oh yes, we fat people are touchy; we're sensitive to the point of tears but fiercely defensive about our right to gorge ourself to death.

I dare say I'm culpable and invite the discussion. There are very few people who don't like talking about their successes. That is balanced by equally many who fixate on their failures ad-nauseum as if that would fix them. Have you ever met an adult who craves attention like a child? They tug at your pants looking for an excuse to complain. We're all looking for empathy, I guess. In my case, I couch my self-absoption as philanthropy whilst simultaneously soaking it in. Some good does rub off as I think I've inspired more than a few people with my story, have dispensed advice tirelessly following my experience and even proactively engaged a few people to do something about their health. I never advocate a surgical solution for my obese friends, but those who recognise the need for it and ask me for advice get it in abundance.

Nowadays, my typical topic of discussion with most people is fitness and weightloss. I welcome it and relish when my friends tell me of their achievements. An online scrabble buddy who lives in Thailand and whom I have only chatted with on Skype tells me of his 15 kg loss from running. That is like music to my ears. Another here in Surrey, a recent mom mentions a pants that fits again. You go, girl! My old South African friend now in Australia regales me with tale of his re-discovered squash prowess. It hearkens back to an era when we both played hard but lived decadently. I beam for him. But there's a dark side too. I cringe when my good friend with a string of maladies won't do the obvious thing because, by his own admission, it will forever curtail his submission to the temptations of good (bad?) food and drink.

Of late, I have begun declining invitations to social outings that only involve food consumption. I'll go to them if they don't interfere with my first priority, my ability to train that day. I'm not inflexible and will happily go to the gym late at night if necessary, but then the outing earlier must not be a pub outing that requires alcohol consumption. I'm also starting to become a tad insufferable. If I can't make a social event for whatever reason, like a perfectly normal schedule conflict, I'm quick to propose an alternative that includes a fitness component, like a walk or tennis game. As those alternatives meet resistance because of the fitness component, I'm starting to seek new companionship. Luckily for me, my wife has started hitting the gym too which has given us a whole new topic for discussion.

Another positive spin-off from my time in the gym is befriending new people with a similar interest in longevity. I've discovered that not every gym rat comes from a long line of athletic genes. In fact, many were insecure, tired of being too fat, too scrawny, too ill and too bullied. When I'm in the weightroom, I'm the only geek in there with a folder in which I log my effort level after each set of reps. Of course, there are always one-or-two with a trainer who is doing exactly the same thing for them. I use my notes to prepare for my next session; add 5 more lbs to the second set of 10 because the effort level was a 5 when it should have been a 6. Drop 10 lbs from that last set of 6; overly ambitious admirably but compromising posture and not exercising the relevant muscle; who are you kidding? Curiously, nobody snickers, not even the heavy-necklaced drug dealers-cum-cage-fighters. The other morning, I got to the gym really early, just after 06h00 and discovered that that is when the local teachers work out. There are two schools adjacent the public recreation centre. How convenient. One fellow commented very positively about my following a structured programme. Between sets, we exchanged ideas. Another chap that I met in the sauna is making a long overdue return to the gym. He hasn't hit the weightroom or pool yet but is biding his time before he makes his move. He warmed not only to the dry heat but also to my story and now can't wait to start training again. Guess what? He has three businesses and is looking to change his accountant. At last I'm networking with the fit set.

Anyway, I told you all of that to tell you this...

When my aforementioned buddy from Thailand told me that he had lost 15 kg, he made the fatal mistake of asking how I'm doing. That is never a one-line-answer question for me. I told him:

"I'm sticking to my fitness programme despite a stall in weightloss, all the time consoling myself that the inertia of the scale is proportional to my muscle gain. The absence of noticeable definition on my frame is because any improvement has been masked by loose, flabby skin. That said, even if I lift a cup to my mouth or try to stand up from the couch, I feel myself tensing chest and arm, and leg muscles, respectively that I swear weren't there 6 weeks ago. My wife, gave me a most-welcome, backhanded compliment the other day. I was showing her my new-and-improved bicep and she said, "Oh my gawd, if it's only been 5 weeks and that has happened, you're going to look like that freak Arnold." I had to grin. Of course, she doesn't appreciate the number of years of training and the volume of pills and hypodermic needles that went into those guys' torsos.

"I'm content to be pushing myself to a level about two notches shy of maximum output in order to avoid injury, alternating weight training with laps in the pool six days a week. I also alternate upper and lower body workouts so, over three weight training sessions in any given week I'll have two days working one half and one day the other, then it'll switch around the next week. That affords ample time for the exercised muscles to recuperate while my body overall still benefits from daily exercise.

"I continue to shrink which is gratifying when the scale doesn't flatter me. I'm down to the last of my suits and the last of three 'newish' slacks that I had outgrown no sooner had I bought them years ago. The 6-month honeymoon period post-op of massive weightloss from doing nothing is a distant--albeit, cherished--memory. From now on it's down to hard work like anybody else, sticking to a high-protein diet and just being grateful for a small, non-stretchable stomach that won't accommodate what my eyes perceive it can."

I made yesterday my day off from the gym because circumstances dictated. My exercise schedule required me to do cardiovascular work which I usually accomplish in the pool. The call centre company where I have just started training gave those of us without technical issues the day off. It was an opportunity to play tennis in the morning in the tranquil setting of Vancouver's Queen Elizabeth Park, one of my favourite destinations in this town. After playing dreadfully, I decided to drag myself to the pool but was intercepted by my friend, Ron Francis' welcome invitation to pop by. An afternoon in the hottub ensued that included imbibing liberally of four Guinness. In the wake of a KFC dinner with my wife, any ambitions of swimming were shot prompting me to write-off Friday instead of today, Saturday as my exercise leisure day.

I was expecting the liquid carb load and decadent dinner to conspire to thwart my best efforts of the week earlier. That was not the case at all. Five solid days of exercise (I'm not counting yesterday's tennis as exercise given how badly I played) easily overcame one day of decadence culminating in another dip on the scale. Hooray for a further one pound loss bringing me to my new low since surgery of 255.8 lb (116.3 kg). The total loss for the week was 6.2 lb (2.8 kg).

The notion of decadence post-bariatric surgery has a different meaning entirely. Four Guinness, a small piece of deep-fried battered chicken thigh and two forks of French fries used to be a snack, the precursor to decadence whereas now it is decadence itself. In my case, it resulted in a very uncomfortable evening on the couch, hiccuping badly with reverse peristalsis threatening ominously in the background. Whether or not abstinence would have yielded a better weight-loss number for the week is of little relevance. Life must be enjoyed warts-and-all. On occasion, a little indulgence brings out a smile and a sense of relaxation even if accompanied by a few hiccups, no pun intended. In the grand scheme of things, life is good. Today we're going to work on my backhand, hit the pool, then Shakespeare in the park.