On my birthday I had Popeye’s chicken and biscuits, fries, and a Dr Pepper. Later that day, I was at a wedding so I drank plenty of champagne and tequilas with lime. I was going to miss food and booze. After surgery, I would be on a liquid diet for three weeks as my new stomach would not be able to handle much. Then my brain would tell me to crave salad instead of pizza . . . allegedly. My lifelong relationship with food had to change. This was sadder than I thought it would be. The way I lived, the way I thought, the way I ate, the things I did with my friends and family, the way I watched TV, the way I self-soothed and celebrated had to change. I would have to do all of those things without food. I didn’t know how, but it would kill me if I didn’t figure it out.
The day before the surgery was the beginning of the liquid diet. Kia vowed to do it with me. I loafed around all day reading a script that Nick Cannon had written for me. The character was a plus-size girl who is called fat ass and hippo. I thought how glad I’d be when my body was no longer mentioned in script ideas for me. “My body is not a character description.” My good friend Amber Riley once said that. I would call Nick in a few days and have him remove those names. Boy, would he be pissed by the time we shot the movie. I called my mom but didn’t share anything about the operation, and then Kia and I went to bed pretty early. We had to be at the hospital at 3 a.m. the next morning. In the middle of the night, I woke up, showered, and packed a small bag for my hospital stay. Before getting in the car, Kia anointed my head with oil and we prayed together for a successful surgery. I was filled with butterflies but kept imagining them being shot down with the surgeon’s lasers. We listened to the radio and sang along on the way to UCLA. We were both scared. I was glad to have someone to be scared with. When we got to the hospital, we checked in; I changed into the hospital gown, took two selfies, and waited for the doctors. They came and I reminded them that I needed to make it out of surgery. “Do everything you can to keep me alive. Even if you have to kill someone else, do it. I have to survive!” My surgeon chuckled and said I’d be fine. I believed him. I worried a little about no one in my family knowing I was having the surgery. If I died during the procedure, they’d not only be shocked and upset, they’d be pissed at Kia! That’s a lot of pressure to put on one person. She calmly sat with me, and reminded me to have “faith over fear,” and helped me breathe through my panic. Soon I was in the operating room, and after what seemed like even sooner, I was in recovery drifting in and out of consciousness.
Kia was scared to see me afterward, weak in a hospital bed. But she got herself together and came back to the hospital later that day, and the first thing I said to her as I put my hands on my hips while lying in the bed was “Bitch! Do I look skinny? It’s me! Gabby! You recognize me?” Two days later she picked me up and we went back to our rental house. I had three days’ worth of texts and work e-mails and requirements from people who had no idea that I had just had surgery. I was tired. My stomach was trembling and sending waves of pain through my entire body. I had oxycodone for the pain, but it made me sleepy and spaced-out. The first few nights, I would wake up at 4:20 a.m. on the dot. I’d have to get up and take the oxy just to get back to sleep. Kia made me sleep with my door open, and every time she heard me shuffling, she’d scream, “You OKAY?! You takin’ drugs?!” She watched me like a hawk and made me drink all my dumb liquids even though I wasn’t hungry. To actually lift something to my mouth to drink or eat felt like a huge hassle. Maybe it was my brain talking, but I was not interested in eating. A part of me would have loved five minutes alone with a tray of lasagna. I wanted it. I didn’t need it. The biggest obstacle between what I wanted and what I needed was my new stomach. I was very sad about all of my food needing to be wet for the first three weeks after surgery. (But I can’t tell you how exciting it was afterward to have my first softly scrambled egg. Really fucking exciting!) All I did was think about food and fantasize about my new body. Kia vowed to do the liquid diet with me, but she started to get spacey and headachy, so I told her to start eating actual food. She swore she wouldn’t and I swore I’d be fine. She started eating kale and cauliflower, and I immediately called her a traitor. I was totally kidding. It actually made me feel better to yell at her about eating when I couldn’t. I just liked yelling and talking about food. Shit. That’s weird. Is that who I am now? Is this how I self-soothe?
A couple of weeks after surgery I had to go to an Empire screening and a panel for Emmy voters. I was super excited to get my hair and makeup done and get out of the house! As I walked down the red carpet, I could already feel the difference in my weight. I usually sweat on red carpets because of nervousness and wearing heels. I stayed completely dry, and my feet didn’t even hurt. I was still spaced-out because of my liquid diet, but I had much more red carpet endurance than I usually would. In the holding area, there were food and drinks. Delicious-looking sandwiches, fruit platters, crudités, and all the wine and vodka I wanted . . . but I didn’t want it. Everyone said I looked great and that I was glowing. Whatever. Kia had been saying that when I was still in the hospital, but I didn’t think anyone else would. Right before we went onstage, I slipped into the bathroom to check my makeup. I saw myself in the mirror. Or not me in the mirror. I hadn’t seen it before but now I could. I had lost quite a bit of weight. My face was thinner. My eyes seemed bigger. Yes, I had makeup on, but I was also, in fact, glowing. I saw what I looked like and I was scared. Really scared. It was less than two weeks after surgery. What would I look like in the next two weeks? In the next month? In the next year? Who would I look like then?
When I say that I’m beautiful, I don’t say it so someone will clap and think I’m brave. I’m not doing it so that someone will comment on how confident I am. I don’t say it with ego and I don’t say it defensively. I don’t say it meaning that people who look like me are better than people who look like you. I say it because I believe it. I’ve earned every centimeter of my beauty. It has taken me years to realize that what I was born with, what was shaped, the mold it took, is all beautiful. I did not get this surgery to be beautiful. I did it so that I can walk around comfortably in heels. I want to do a cartwheel. I want not to be in pain every time I walk up a flight of stairs. I want to stop worrying about losing my toes.
I know I’m beautiful in my current face and my current body. What I don’t know about is the next body. The next face. I admit, I hope to God I don’t get skinny. If I could lose enough to just be a little chubby, I’ll be over the moon! I don’t know what that will look like, my new face, my new body. Will I still be beautiful then? Shiiiiit. Probably. My beauty doesn’t come from a mirror. Never has and never will.
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Do you expect me to be satisfied with a hashtag?
—Peaches, The Tale of Four