After reaching my primary weight goal set by University of California, San Francisco, I called the transplant nurse. The poor thing seemed rather confused. She thought I had hypertension. I don’t. She said I took medications. I don’t. She stated I should lose should lose fifty more pounds. I don't. That is when I raised my voice. A few more words back and forth, she realized she read the wrong chart.
Although I know that none of that conversation had anything to do with my reality, it depressed me for a few days. Possibly the let down came from the feeling that my weight-loss achievement could be put in a negative context by an outsider that already has too much control on my husband and my future. My expectations had been to have an intelligent and information-gathering conversation with my personal transplant nurse. That did not happen. Matter-of-fact, the lady called back to apologize but left the message on my husband’s cell phone not mine.
Transplant drama, notwithstanding, I managed to stay on track with the diet and eat sensibly. I did have a peanut butter craving that did not stop until I consumed three tablespoons, 140 calories, of the sticky stuff. All other days went smoothly.