When my mother’s friend brought up surgery that Shabbos afternoon, my mother nodded along. It would solve all my problems. Instead of wishing I could be skinnier, I actually would be.

We wouldn’t have to worry about my brother coming home from yeshivah and starting to date before his older sister was married. The boys’ mothers would take notice. More shadchanim would start calling. I’d be comfortable looking in the mirror.

I would finally be happy.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I told my mother after she mentioned the idea yet again. “You can call the surgeon. I’ll have the band surgery.”

In order to get approved for weight loss surgery, insurance mandates a psychological evaluation. They needed to make sure — do you really want this life-changing surgery? Are you doing it for the right reasons?

I was doing it for all the wrong ones, but I gave all the right answers.

“No one is pressuring me into this surgery.”

“I want it for myself, not for any external reasons.”

“Yes, I’m ready for how drastically this will change my personality, eating habits, and life.”

I walked out of the psychologist’s office with approval for the surgery and a tinge of excitement. After years of being overweight, there was a way out. I’d go to sleep for a few hours, the doctor would work his magic, and I’d wake up as a new person. A new Rechama. A skinny Rechama. A confident Rechama.

“I’m making the right decision?” I asked my mother again, the end of my statement raised in question.

But days later, as the nurse helped me change into a gown and put on the mesh cap, I was fighting back tears. She helped me climb onto the gurney, my parents hugged me goodbye, and the attendants pushed me through the double doors that led to the operating room.

I grabbed the nurse’s hand. “Please, take me back to my parents,” I cried. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to have the surgery.”

The nurse looked down and used the corner of my gown to wipe my tears away. “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s normal to be nervous.”

Not this kind of nervous, I thought. I’m doing the surgery for all the wrong reasons.

“It will all be over soon,” the nurse said as she clicked the gurney in place in the middle of the white operating room. I was still crying when the anesthesiologist put a mask over my face.

Then my world went black.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 762)