I wake up in the 5 AM darkness, shivering. I check on Lor, who is still fast asleep, curled up in the fetal position, clutching Vixen for a heat source. I am positive that something has gone wrong with the heating system in the house, so I make my way across the (frozen) hardwood floor, out into the (frozen) hallway, and check our thermostat. It insists that the temperature is 69 degrees. But I know, for a fact, that it is -12 degrees F, and we have been somehow transported from the high desert of Albuquerque to the middle of an iceberg floating through the Arctic Sea.
Welcome to the Freezing Frozen - also known as life after bariatric surgery.
I sit here writing feeling as though I have icicles dangling from my earlobes. I am wearing flannel underwear, thick socks, flannel boxers, a set of "thermal" leggings, an undershirt, a sweatshirt, and a hoodie. Except for the hoodie, this is what I wore to bed last night. It is a whole new world. A very cold and ice-covered world, in fact.
I have had it explained to me many times, and no two explanations are the same. Maybe the body's heat regulator gets completely out of whack after bariatric surgery. Perhaps increased metabolism causes us to perceive heat differently. It is a temporary condition that will correct itself after a few months. Or it is a torment to people who are a decade out from their surgeries. The only consensus is that there is no consensus.
I kind of like Lor's explanation, actually - she tells people that, with having lost nearly 100 pounds each, we have ripped out the majority of our "insulation". What would happen to the temperature in our house if we removed half the insulation in our attic?
I am fairly sure it would feel exactly the way it does right now, actually.
Apparently, we have been talking about this more than a little. One of the gifts we received from my in-laws was a 1500 Watt space heater. My parents bought us clothing gift certificates, and my mother advised me to "Buy something warm." I sincerely apologize to everyone who has had to listen to us complain about the cold.
But, it is either that or listen to our teeth chattering.
Wishing I Could Type With Gloves On,