#slcva

I know it’s been awhile since I’ve written anything, so I thought I’d stop slacking. This is going to be a long post, so you might want to grab snacks now...don’t worry, I’ll wait. 

I arrived to Houston optimistic. Convinced that they were only going to remove a part of my stomach, and then I was going to spend the next few months re-stretching it out. I figured if I had to have cancer, then at least I got this weight loss surgery out of it. I was blindly optimistic. I woke up from the surgery groggy, disoriented, and confused. I had a tube in my nose that ran the length of my throat that caused irritation and discomfort everytime I had to swallow. Having a tube in your throat created more saliva which in turn required more swallowing. There was no winning the painful throat battle. I had a tube coming out of my abdomen that was going to feed me for the indefinite future. I had a thin tube in my back that was my epidural and of course mine leaked so I was only numb in sections of my stomach. I was genuinely surprised by how much I hurt. It was blinding. There’s a reason you get to push a button and have some morphine released...it was miserable. 

I heard people talking around me, but nothing really made sense. The only thing I remember them saying was that they had to remove my entire stomach. The fairy tale of a quick recovery slipped away, and I heard the disappointed exhales of my parents. I cried myself to sleep that night. 

The days that followed were a series of movements by staff that had long since fallen into a routine, and some were nicer than others. A lot of side to side motions, and sitting up and standing. There’s no pretending to be asleep to get out of these drills. You don’t have a choice. My stomach eerily looked like Frankensteins early work, and it took me a moment to catch my breath at the sight of it. 

I was in the hospital for two weeks. My parents were there everyday. Even in my sleep I heard the familiar sound of my dad opening a can of Diet Pepsi, and it brought me comfort. Getting up, walking, breathing exercies became my new routine. I definitely wasn’t great at doing it, and my surgeon complained of my unwillingness to sit up for prolong periods of time, but then again, he didn’t just have his insides ripped out and re-sewn together. However, when or if I was ever ready for a walk, I always knew I had an escort in the way of my parents. 

I was finally released from prison, er, I mean the hospital, and it felt great. I was out almost a week before my inability to tolerate the tube feedings and uncontrolled pain put me back in the hospital. They stopped the tube feedings, and started doing TPN (Total Parenteral Nutrition) through my port. It’s basically tube feeding except in runs through my veins vs my small intestine. I can’t say it was much better, but it was going to get me out of the hospital. The disappointment was heavy. I already struggled to catch my breath, but the disappointment of how everything had and was going was hard. One particular night of disappointment I called my dad, just to hear his voice. The next thing I know at 3AM he’s in my room cracking a Pepsi, and holding my hand. We fell asleep like that, and in that moment I didn’t have the weight of disappointment, and frustration. I had the snoring of my dad next to me telling me it was going to be ok. 

Once I left the hospital, my parents had to kick into overdrive. They had to learn how to feed me, how to mix the TPN, how to flush an IV line, how to set up the machines, they’re basically experts now. My mom handled the logistics like the seasoned pro she is, and my dad took me for walks.