As some of you who read this blog might know, I had surgery last week. Gastric bypass surgery. I spent about 4 years playing with the idea of getting it done, but not until about a couple of months ago that idea had become more of a tangible goal. I spent most of last month in and out of hospitals, getting my pre-surgery exams done, making sure every organ in my body is functioning to its premium, that my hormones are in place, having my veins raped by laboratories a few times a week, just to make sure I was in good shape to go through the surgery. So it finally happened last week. I checked myself in on Thursday afternoon and came home on Sunday.
This has been, by far, one of the most trying weeks of my life. I went into the operating room way too over-confident, way too relaxed and totally underestimated the severity of the post-surgery period. It was hell. I woke up from the anesthesia right when I was being moved from the operating table to the stretcher, and there could not have been a worst time to start to return to my senses. It felt like I was inside a washer, only there were people outside it letting me know that everything went well and that I would be fine. I wasn’t. At least it didn’t feel like it. Not for a couple of days.
The first night was by far the worst one I’ve had in my entire life. I can’t really recall the type of pain I was in, all I know is that it made it especially hard to breath and laying on a sheet of hot nails was pretty much just as comfortable. My panic kicked in and I had cold sweats all night. I didn’t sleep at all. My parents sat on each side of my bed holding envelopes and x-rays that served as fans. They took turns shaking them above my body to alleviate the crazy hot flashes I felt.
Next day was bad too. I still felt a lot of pain, I was thirsty and couldn’t drink anything. The needle they stuck in my hand to inject medication burnt me like fire. My back was killing me and I still couldn’t feel my legs completely. The second night wasn’t any better either. I stared at a clock hanging on the wall counting down the seconds for my next dose of painkillers. Nothing worked.
The third day was a little better physically, but mentally I was starting to get irritated and felt desperate. I cried because I was so tired of feeling pain. I was exhausted and there was nothing anyone could do. I was sick and tired of the hospital room, I was tired of that hospital smell that made it so obvious I wasn’t at home. My nerves really started to get to me, and as much as I tried to be patient, feeling agonizing pain 24/7 is just not something I’m cut-out for.
Then Sunday I came home. I was never so happy to leave a place in my whole life. I wanted out of that hospital. I wanted to be at home with my dog, with the smell of my sheets, my TV, like any other person would on a Sunday. I was craving normalcy.
My pain hasn’t been as strong ever since I got home. I still feel a lot of lower back pain, and it’s difficult to walk and to find a comfortable position to sleep at night, but it’s bearable. My nerves are shot, though. My anxiety is back, and my panic symptoms kicked-in full force last night. My hands were sweating, I felt dizzy, like I was going to pass out at any second. I couldn’t sit still and couldn’t calm myself down enough to even talk to someone on the phone. I look back now and I see that I totally underestimated the effects of a surgery, let alone this kind of surgery, on me. I’ve been on a “liquid diet” for 4 days now, and I’m only allowed 50ml every hour or so. Just soup and juice. I feel deprived and I have cravings like a crazy pregnant woman, but I’m not hungry. It’s just that your brain can’t process the thought of a stomach that is tiny now. It’s a humbling experience. Everyone has seen me naked, and all of a sudden I don’t care. At one point I had about 6 people in my hospital room while I had no underwear on. And did I mention I have a drain coming out of a hole in my stomach, right under my left breast? Yeah, I do.
So, in a nutshell, it’s been a crazy, fucked-up week that is supposed to change the way I am for the rest of my life. I can’t tell you right now if I’m happy, or if I regret the whole ordeal, or if I’m super excited about what’s to come, because at this point, happiness to me means not having a tube coming out of my insides.
So ask me that again when I have no back pain or when I can’t see any red fluid constantly coming out of my guts. I believe I’ll be happy with the surgery soon. Right now I fucking hate it. Actually, right now there’s very little people or things I like, but this will change soon. At least we all here hope so.
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I don't mean to sound like a brat here. This has been really hard on my family too. My dad has helped me get up from a chair more than 200 times, my sister has seen more angles of my private parts than she would like to in a lifetime, my mom spends countless hours awake with me and cooks for me all day, my brother took such good care of my dog. I couldn't have done it without them, and going through this with the four of them only reassures me that moving back home was the right move for me at this time. Nobody will ever take care of you like your family does, and that is the most absolute truth.
