FUPA Removed...sort of... : one year later

I've been hesitant to write this post. See....I tend to vomit up whatever I'm feeling onto the page, and then hit post and walk away. I don't really edit. I don't concern myself with being PC - as this is my experience, told from my point of view - so I figure I might as well be honest about it.

But the concern I have with this method, regarding this topic, is that I'm going to come off as ungrateful. Ungrateful for the opportunity to have this surgery done. Ungrateful for all of you supporting me and keeping me motivated through it. And mostly that I'd seem ungrateful to my family who put their lives on hold to take care of me, and do all my chores, and make sure I was taken care of...for WEEKS. I am so absolutely appreciative for all of that - - and I don't ever want there to be confusion about that.

That being said - pretty much all other aspects of my first skin removal surgery - - my Circumferential Body Lift (aka: FUPA removal) - - have me going through a ton of emotions. Actually - who am I kidding - - it has me experiencing ALL the emotions. I looked them up - apparently humans have 7. So I experience even more than these emotions - - because I feel a whole lot more than 7 things.

I experience happiness and surprise... Some awe... A little pride thrown in for good measure - when I see that I have a flat-ish stomach. It's not perfectly flat. There is still extra skin there (to be expected, within reason) - so thankfully I don't need to feel compelled to strive for a 6 pack, as that shit just is not happening no matter what I do. But for the first time in my life, when I look down, I don't see my stomach/FUPA sticking out. It feels pretty frickin sweet.  So there is good. About 50% of it is good.

But then I realized a couple of months ago that I don't really look at my body...but now it is not for the same reasons I used to avoid looking. Before I was just so big, that if I looked...I mean REALLY LOOKED... I likely wouldn't have left the house. I NEVER would have changed in a locker room. I wouldn't have let anyone near me without being 100% fully covered.

This is different. This is avoidance, due to the other emotions: Anger, Disgust, Sadness, Fear & Contempt. I'm still using not registering my body as a defense mechanism - - but for very different reasons. Every time I look at the area of my body lift - at the scar line, and the areas surrounding it, I typically experience one of these emotions.

Yes - of course there are times where I look and I'm still pretty damn jazzed - - especially when I finally observed how light my scar lines were getting. Who knows how long they've been this light - - because I don't recall even seeing them for a long period before then.

But the overwhelming majority of the time, I'm some varied version of pissed.

I'm still so incredibly mad that my surgeon didn't tell me he was in over his head. That he put me under, without a solid plan of how he was going to execute this surgery - ALL of this surgery, not the parts he could get done within his allotted time. What a fucking coward. To put me through the surgery, and that recovery, without getting everything done is just unacceptable. Or maybe he's just so incompetent he thinks he did get everything done. Maybe he legitimately things a woman wants to have all of the loose skin/fatty tissue left on her lady biz....that we desire to be able to tap one side and have it ripple like a water bed? Maybe he thinks I wanted my crotch to be crooked. SERIOUSLY CROOKED because he just fucking left it untouched during the surgery. I honestly cannot even begin to guess what the hell he did to my ass...but I can assure you it looks worse. WHAT. THE.FUCK. WAS. HE. DOING?!??!?!

But more frequent than my overwhelming contempt for him, and what I perceive to be completely unethical practices, is the anger I have at myself. I chose him. I met with other surgeons - one who has proven to be an absolute gem (used for my 2nd surgery) - - and I chose THIS GUY!??!???! My brain allowed me to pick someone who couldn't be bothered to proof read his after-care instructions - not once, but twice!??!!?!? I picked a guy who had no idea how to deal with my particular needs, and wasn't professional enough to just admit it. I let this guy do the most invasive thing I've ever had done - with apparently no plan/no idea how long it would actually take him. He had me in there MUCH longer than he said he would - and still didn't finish the job. And then post-surgery when I'd try to ask him about it, he'd completely brush me off. What an unprofessional asshole.

I am genuinely more self-conscious of my body now than I was before. Before I was just a really, really, big gal - - but it was what it was. No big surprises. Now - with clothes on - you expect one thing, but then SURPRISE! It's a crooked waterbed crotch and a misshapen rear end! When I sit it looks like I have a pillow stuck in my pants at my crotch/upper thighs because of all the extra skin he left. And every time I see it, I get pissed off....

So the anniversary of this surgery brought up a bunch of shit for me - - I know, I know...after this swearing rant, you guys already knew that. It's made me shut myself off more than usual. Most days I unconsciously avoid looking at the areas that trigger me. Some days I forget, and then I have to have a talk with myself. When I look at my lap I have to have a talk with myself. On those pissed off days I have to end my pep talk with "fuck it - - you could have died"...because honestly I can't believe something significant didn't happen with the amount of walking that moron had me doing after my surgery...

So like I said - - I'm about 50/50. Grateful I got to get most of that albatrose (all of that extra skin) off me....but so disappointed in who I let do it.

Like with all of use & with all things, I'm going to need to buck the fuck up....and I will. But I'm also allowing myself some time to feel what I'm going to feel about it....

Looking at these pictures actually makes me a little proud of how far I've come - - even the one that looks like my asscrack goes up to my middle back, unless I pull my skin apart. What the hell is that about!??! The things I don't notice, because I don't look that closely....

The Exhaustion of Inactivity

It was a little over three years ago that I was the super content to sit on my ass, not doing a thing. Dormancy was my norm. Stillness my comfort. A trip to my kitchen was about the furthest I would walk with any frequency - and that was about 30 feet. Sitting and I were def BFFs.

Then Scott came on the scene...and with that came increased movement. Slow movement. Huffing & puffing movement. Whine-saturated movement. But still...movement. Over the last 3ish years - that had become my norm. I took a 4 week break at the time of my gastric bypass surgery - but still had frequent, short walks incorporated in that recovery.

Going into my first plastics surgery - I tried to get as much movement in as possible. I kept up with my workouts. Incorporated some additional yoga stuff, just to enjoy being able to move pain-free. Stayed on the elliptical. Remained the brightest spot in Scott's Monday & Wednesday afternoons with our sessions. I wanted to go into my surgery strong - knowing I did everything I could to get myself prepared for the best recovery....

I read, and reread, my post-care directives from my surgeon. Memorizing them, so I made sure I didn't cause any additional issues or delays in getting back to my now normal/active life. Little did I know that my surgeon and his team had failed to proofread these instructions - and I was told to walk 20 minutes, 6 times a day. This should have been 6-20 minute walks a WEEK. So the day after they cut around my entire body, and pieced me back together, they had me walking for 2 hours. I was putting on 4-6 miles a day for the first 3 weeks after my surgery. When I should have been enjoying my drug-haze downtime, I was out hoofing it around the hallways of my building.

So needless to say - I was less than jazzed at my 3 week follow-up appointment when they realized their error - and bumped me back down to 1-20 minute walk a day. I'd been walking around repeatedly when I really wanted to sit in my chair and enjoy a relaxing recovery - - but at 3 weeks out, I was feeling pretty good. I was ready to up my activity, and had it knocked back down to basically non-movement.

One of the pamphlets I was given about the circumfrential body lift (aka: FUPA removal) procedure said that people would likely be able to return to activities such as tennis, golf, swimming & sex after 4 weeks. I don't know who the hell would have thought sex sounded fun at 4 weeks - - but bless whoever they are. I can assure you, I still have no interest (not that I have a ton of options thrown my way) at 6.5 weeks out. But if people are able to play tennis at 4 weeks - why I am I still being held to one 20 minute walk a day? Trying to turn back the hands of time/potential damage caused by having me walking 2 hours a day when that is absolutely NOT what I should have been doing? I can't help but wonder...

Now I have realized the exhaustion that is caused by inactivity. I feel like I don't sleep as well as when I'm active. My body is...bored. I swear my brain is not firing on all cylinders! There are likely more side effects to share, but my brain isn't capable of remembering them.... =)

I knew recovery was going to be a change of pace. I just didn't fully realize how dependent I am on movement to keep me content and comfortable. Who would have thought movement could replace pizza?

Natalie and the Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad Day

Let me start by stating that I absolutely hate what I am about to do. People who post cryptic, passive-aggressive statements or posts in what seem to only be a feeble attempt to elicit sympathy, or concerned questions about their welfare...it drives me bonkers...but here I go....


Today has been the most colossally shitty day that I can recall in a really, really, really long time. I'm not going to get into much for details right now because I feel like I need to give the situation, and myself, a minute before I spout off about things that could correct themselves (although that is seeming unlikely right now). So lets just leave it at the fact that today was absolute shit...and go from there.


Now...over the last few years I've developed slightly better coping skills. Where an emotionally taxing day in my previous life would likely end in some combination of: chocolate cake, beer, French fries, Cheetos, wine, pizza, big macs, copious amounts of queso, vanilla vodka, a Baconator or 2.... I have now typically turned to some sort of physical exertion to help deal with my emotional turmoil....

• a long walk with my headphones on
• a quick, but strenuous, ride on the elliptical
• two words: slam balls!!! (Scott's best purchase)
• flipping tires - although I normally hate it, it makes you feel slightly invincible

So what does one do when their body has been sliced all the way around, and they can't do shit? None of the things on the list that have now become stress-relieving go-to's are allowed. I can't even go for a fucking walk because it makes me swell up, and makes my upper vag sensitive as shit!!! I can't even take a damn bubble bath. About the only thing, not food-related, that I can do is scream into a pillow - - and even that would probably make me pop a fucking stitch.


The best I could do was try and run the couple of errands I had as quickly as possible, and get my ass home. Drive past all of the fries and pizzas and chocolate cakes. Get myself to the warm, safe haven of my house. Get into my chair. Cover up with my blanket. Allow myself to feel whatever the hell it is I am feeling. Eat my taco meat with jalapeno dip. Keep the (non alcoholic) liquids flowing. And maybe, just maybe, find the outlet I need by firing up this computer and venting right here. Swearing as much as I fucking want to swear.


Not shoveling things "in" to try and make me feel better, but letting things "out". Let my frustration and pissed-off-ness and overwhelming disappointment out in a....questionably...constructive way.


There's still a decent chance I'll be in tears at some point tonight - - my emotions have been a little too close to the surface for the last couple of months - - and both being pissed off and sad/hurt/disappointed tend to bring me to the brink. And if I do, so be it. At least I won't be crying into a beer....which I count as a slight improvement for myself.

It Puts the Lotion on the Back

I think I was born with a FUPA...I probably came out of the womb covered in goo, rocking a fupe. I don't recall a day where I didn't have one. Sure - there were varying degrees. Some smaller - some so, so large. Now it's can best be described as saggy...a loose pendulum swaying side to side with my movements. 

While I had issues working around my whole body those last few years, my stomach was definitely one of the most problematic. I couldn't bend at my waist - - so trying to get my shoes tied, get a golf ball out of the cup, and a million other things - proved nearly impossible. You should have seen me struggle to cut my toe nails, or paint them...laborious to say the least!

This most recent version and I have developed a rhythm. For most of the past couple of years I co-existed with this more deflated version of my FUPA less than consciously. It became automatic to tuck my multiple layers around it, trying to keep the crevices clean & dry -- doing my best to not develop any of the painful looking rashes/skin irritations I have seen others suffer from. It became this soft and squishy extension of myself that I honestly barely noticed...

Well...barely noticed until I'd do certain things at the gym. When I exercise, I repeatedly reposition my workout pants to try to keep them between my FUPA and upper thighs - bound and determined to avoid chafing. Any sled-pushing, and burpee-doing, would result in an audible slap of my FUPA against my legs. Scott claims he couldn't hear it, but that sound was deafening to me...

So as my FUPA and I enter the end of our time together, I've tried to pay attention. To not overlook the inconvenience it causes. To not diminish the tedium of insuring my skin is properly protected and cared for. To actually see the drawbacks of having this dangling mass hanging off my body - - not just the weight of it, but not being able to see some of the progress I've made working my ass off for the last 3 years. I have no idea what's under there, and I'm finally willing to admit I'm pretty damn excited to see it.   

I'm looking forward to having "the spread" (the extra bulk on my hips/ass that spreads out when I sit down) tightened up a bit. (pulling up my lower core area will also pull up my upper thighs/hips/ass) I may legitimately fit in my plane seat, and not have the the spread spill under the arm rests next to me! For a girl who is really happy to finally fit in a plane seat again, this is just the icing on the cake! 

The only drawback is that I will legitimately no longer have an ass. I didn't realized that until we were doing "FUPA's Last Photo Shoot" and I made that video. When I pulled up on the top of my rear, that baby was GONE! Hopefully Dr Camp can build me a little something...we all know I have the extra material... but I've also warned Scott that my return to the gym will have to be known as "Operation: Build a Booty". 

We are down to our last 9 days together. It has been nice having this time to actually observe the changes to my body more closely than I have since my weight loss surgery...and it will be weird as shit for a while when it's gone...but I adjusted to this body pretty quickly. I'm confident I'll be just fine in my new FUPA-less existence. 

Have you guessed the weight of the FUPA yet? Here is a link: FUPA Weight Guessing Game