Speaking of GAS.......I apologize to all and I hope my Papa Dip hears me....

I have no idea how much air they had to inflate into my stomach for this operation! But, this gas pain (not really gas, you know) has overstayed it's welcome. Today, for some reason, the pain was so incredibly awful, I found myself in tears several times. They definitely said to expect this. And, they said it would be intense. But, holy HELL, this is beyond intense! Gives me a whole new perspective on having gas! And, now I feel so guilty. I never gave people the benefit of the doubt when they "passed gas" in my presence. Even the people who I love! I want to go back and tell everyone who ever found the need to have gas in my presence that I am sorry for thinking badly of them, calling them names, laughing at them or even lecturing them. Trapped gas is torture. (even though mind is air....not gas) It needs to be relieved. Hopefully, I'll be able to make peace with those who I ridiculed. It might take me awhile but this is hugely important. I will beg for their forgiveness. For I just didn't know. I was ignorant to the trauma of gas pain. And, I'll tell them that I applaud the fact that they know what their bodies need and are brave enough to suffer the humiliation hoisted upon them from savage, uncaring people like me. I must make amends. I will proclaim them as true pioneers and geniuses! I will let them know that they are not rude or gross or old or disgusting or deplorable or not worthy of living among humans. And, I will make a solemn promise to each and every one of them that they will always have a safe haven with me should they need to have gas. And that I shall spread the word of gas acceptance! But, sadly, I won't be able to apologize to my dear Papa......a man with major gas. Therein lies my great heartache.

When I was growing up, my mother talked to her father several times a day. They always discussed whether he had gas or if he didn't have gas or if he passed his gas or if his gas was trapped. Gas. Gas. Gas. Gas. Sometimes they used Italian words, other times they spoke in English. But, what it boiled down to was that my dear Papa always seemed to have problems with gas. As little kids, my sisters, my cousins and I were entertained by all those gas discussions....."Papa farts!" we would giggle! My Papa was a good guy who lived to a ripe old age. Growing up only a few houses away from him, I spent many, many hours with him, my beloved mute aunt and my Nana (when she was alive). I'd tag along with him in his garden, steal the figs from the tree he lovingly brought from his homeland and eat the sour grapes he grew on the many arbors around his small yard. I'd sneak down into his basement and fiddle with the church he spent 10 years building....a replica of St. Peter's in the Hill District of Pittsburgh. It would play an entire mass for you if you knew the secret of how to operate it. Which, of course, I did. The bells would ring, the Latin songs would begin to play and the altar boys would go down the aisle. And then the priest would appear and say an entire Latin mass. It was a sight to see. He liked to call me "Angelina"....naming me after himself since his wife never allowed one of his nine children to carry his name. He buried 3 of his children--my mother being one of them--and one grandson. In his later years, he complained a lot, prayed a lot and had a lot of gas. His name was Angelo. A little Italian man with merry blue eyes, a balding head, always wearing a shirt with 2 pockets and a vest. On holidays or on days when he was feeling especially good, he would sit in his chair with a cigar. On bad days, he would sit up in the bathroom and yell downstairs to anyone who would listen about the agony of his gas. Along with his yelling, loud sounds would emerge. The gas. Thankfully, his daughter( my dear, dear aunt who lived with him) could not hear. But, she could smell. So, she'd stand in the middle of the living room holding her nose and scrunching up her face. I'm not sure if anyone knew, as I do now, that his pain was real. I feel bad about that. I feel very sad. And, I'm so sorry. And, I hope my Papa Dip is sitting up there nodding his head with an "I told you so attitude". I deserve it. But, I also pray that he finds it in his heart to forgive those of us who did not give him a comfortable and accepting place to unharness his pain. Although the gift of my obesity did not come from him (the Irish side gave it to me....), perhaps this gas lesson was my Papa's gift to me......his Angelina. My Lap Band journey has given me so much. I love the memories it brings back.....
Fare Un Peto, Papa! Fare Un Peto!!!