TryAgainInTheMorning

to the ones who will need skin removal surgery by the time they reach their gw

to the ones who don’t get cold when they starve because of all the extra fat on their bodies

to the ones who are praised for skipping meals because everyone’s just so happy they’re finally being “healthy”

to the ones who are at such a high weight that losing 30 lbs shows no difference in their body at all

to the ones who get annoyed at posts saying “reblog to get skinny by…” because that’s physically impossible for us

to the ones who are still considered obese even after losing 50 lbs

to the ones who are made fun of no matter what they eat, whether it’s pizza or a salad

to the ones who have a medical condition that makes them gain weight or have trouble losing weight, such as pcos or hypothyroidism

I was excited going into my surgery. I’d already lost 30lbs during the course of my pre-op program. I was very proud that I hadn’t cheated once during my liquid diet. And as a nurse working out of the same office as my hospital’s bariatric program, checking in frequently with my nutritionist and weighing myself weekly with a biometric scale was a perk of my job, I implicitly trusted my surgeon and couldn’t feel more prepared.

I remember being foggy, coming out of surgery. I remember the typical post-op pain I was expecting.

Then I remember laying on a bathroom floor, screaming in agony, with a stunned nurse aide standing above me, who was apparently trying to help me to the bathroom. I couldn’t twist or lift myself. And worse than the pain in my stomach was a mysterious pain in my shoulders and neck of all places. Nurses and aides and doctors gathered around me in confusion. I could not get up from the floor. Ultimately, they had to lift me up with a hoyer.

It was almost midnight. My surgeon rushed back to the hospital to evaluate me. He told me he suspected my stomach was leaking, and he wanted to give me a blood transfusion to stabalize me.

Then he hesitated.

He said, there was also a chance...a small chance...that my spleen had been cut or punctured during the course of my surgery, and it was possible I was bleeding internally. But unfortunately the only way to determine if that was the case was to go back to surgery and open me back up. But instead of a laparoscopic procedure, I would be opened up, from breast to pubic bone...and what did I want to do?

That was such an odd moment. Why was he asking me? I was just a nurse, and this scenario, I was the scared patient and he was the all-knowing surgeon. He performed 4 surgeries every day, I’d been told. Certainly he knew better than me what to do? Unless this was...a consent thing? A cover-your-ass thing? “Well, the patient wanted to do this, so...” Besides, the right answer was obvious.

“Doctor,” I said, “If I’m bleeding internally, what will a blood transfusion do for me? We need to go back in.”

I don’t think that was the answer he was expecting. I think he was expecting me to go to easier route, because of my pain. But he just nodded and within the hour, I was back in surgery. And, yes. My spleen had been cut. My surgeon attempted to repair the damage.

The following days were a blur. My intense pain continued, including my strange shoulder and neck pain, which I discovered was referred pain from my spleen. My hemoglobin and hematocrit levels decreased and decreased, suggesting I was still bleeding.

There was talk about going into surgery a third time, this time to remove my spleen entirely. This prospect made me sob in misery. Not only because of the fear and pain of another procedure, but because your spleen is very important in infection fighting. Without my spleen, I might not be able to return to my job as a nurse. It meant a life where my immune system was permanently damaged, living in perpetual illness after illness.

I had 2 blood transfusions, which was in contrary to my previous thinking. I just wanted to buy myself some time, just a little time for my spleen to heal. In 3 days, my labs leveled out. There was no longer any sign of internal bleeding. I was so relieved.

I stayed in the hospital another 5 days. From ICU to step down to general hospital population. I started walking and using a beside commode. Finally, I was released to go home.

Through all this...I kind of forgot about my bypass. I was robbed of all the excitement of my weight loss journey.

I was also robbed of how I was going to share my by-pass coming out. I wasn’t exactly keeping it a secret. My immediate family knew, my co-workers knew. A few close friends knew. But now...everyone on Facebook knew. And that was my own doing. I posted in very plain language on FB because it was the quickest and most efficient way to let people know that 1) I was a having an emergency 2) pls don’t visit me 3) my family would need support. And it would squash speculation and rumor. But it also meant that my neighbors knew, my extended family knew, people who only knew me casually knew, former co-workers....eh. It just wasn’t the elegant coming out I’d wanted.

I’ve been back to the hospital since for an ER visit, due to pain and dehydration. I’ve had my drainage tubes removed in a regular follow up (that was horrendous, it was like having a tape worm removed that snaked around my entire torso.) This week, I’ll have my staples removed (I’m dreading this, it will be painful).

I have so many mixed feelings. My family was/is so furious about the situation. All they wanted to do was sue the hospital. And I had to explain to them that, despite what happened, my bariatric surgeon was the best and most experienced surgeon in the region. And I NEEDED him to FIX me. I needed all the doctors and nurses and staff to be my warriors. I didn’t want any person to feel uncomfortable around me or hesitate to give me care because words like “malpractice” were being casually tossed around. Besides, there’s nothing to indicate my surgeon did anything wrong. Surgery is inherently a risky business. People have complications and even die during routine procedures, even gastric bypass. It’s a risk I accepted when I chose this path. Eventually, my family adhered to my wishes. Even my husband, who was angriest of all, I had to tell him if he couldn’t control himself, I would not allow him to visit me in the hospital. I did not want his venting (I’m gonna kill that doctor!) to be heard by ANYONE during this age of mass shootings. He could be arrested for talking that way, and then who would support me? He, too, eventually saw things my way and compartmentalized his feelings until we could decompress together in the privacy and safety of our home.

My 5 year old autistic son was glad to have me home. The impact on him has been the most...unexpected.

He is developmentally behind and limited verbally. We explained my absence to him by simply saying I was at Dr Anna’s house (From Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood) and he was totally satisfied with explanation. Although, while I video chatted with him from the hospital, he attempted to bride me home. “Mama...night-night at Dr Anna?” he asked to confirm my whereabouts. “Mama....come home..,cookies? Mama cookies?” he offered.

When I came home, it was to no fan-fare from him. The only reaction I got was when he saw me...he took off his sneakers, indicating instead of wanting to go outside, he wanted to stay home. As I settled into my bed room, he silently followed me. He brought his blankie from his bedroom into mine. I went to bed, he snuggled beside me and went to sleep.

I showed him my incision and drainage bags the next morning. He understood immediately. “Boo-boo!” He cried in disbelief, looking me right in the face, which if you’re familiar with typical autistic traits, was a rare moment for us. “Yeah, big boo-boo,” I told him. He quickly pulled down my shirt and gave my belly a light pat. I’ve been home for a week now, and he gives my tummy regular pats.

He is such a sweet, gentle, affectionate boy.

Every day I get a little better. I’m trying to shift my focus back to my weight loss journey.

There were moments I found myself regretting getting gastric bypass. But the more time that passes, the pain and fear from the trauma fade. Besides, it’s done now. I still have a tiny pouch where my stomach used to be. I’m glad it’s there. If it wasn’t, I might be eating my stress and feelings away right now. So instead of drowning in Oreos (which sounds amazing right now) I’m sipping Gatorade and Premier Protein, waiting to move on to the next phase of my diet. Can’t wait for purées/ground food. My appetite has returned in full swing and I have to focus on my goals.

My roommate Kait runs 20 miles 4 times a week. Horses can only travel about 32 miles a day.

If my roommate ran 20 miles twice in one day (possible if she does one in the morning and one in the afternoon) she would out travel a horse.

 She is not FASTER than a horse, but if a horse was walking away from her for 8 solid hours,  Kait could catch up to it.  She could probably also walk after it for an additional 5-10 miles after the run and then stab it when it got too tired to go on.

But kait’s athletic. 

 I, on the other hand, am a fatty fat who weighs 210 and never exercises ever.

I once, completely spontaneously because i had no money for the train, walked 17 miles in the winter from one end of Chicago to the other. I had also not eaten and was wearing a backpack. It took me 3 hours, but I accomplished it with ease. If i wasn’t a chub goddess, and had eaten and it was summer and I wasn’t wearing a backpack with a laptop in it, imagine how far and fast I could have gone. 

Now. Horses can only sustain a run for about 15 miles ( at 8-10mph it takes them a little over an hour).

If my fat ass was walking towards a horse for 3 hours and it was literally running away from me. It would become exhausted after 15 miles and unless it can recover completely in 2 hours for another lengthy sprint, I can reasonably catch up to it and stab it. (not that i would ever stab a horse. horses are terrifying and should be regarded with suspicion, respect and fear)

The longest run ever was 350 miles over 80 hours without sleep.