Right After Surgery In Intensive Care. In The Middle, I Have Won The Battle Of Oxygen Mask! On The Right, Me After About Five Months Or So.
The anniversary of my weight loss surgery is coming up again. This year marks my tenth year anniversary. It’s hard to believe because the time has gone by so quickly and so much has happened. I wrote this a little while after I got the surgery but I never did much with it until now.
Now that I have my own blog, I thought I would share it with 27 loyal readers. I hope you like it.
The Big Day
So here I am, sitting in the hospital, waiting to be rolled down to the operating room or as they say in medical lingo, the OR. It’s amazing what you can learn in the hospital. The attendants will be here in about five minutes and now is the time to decide if I really want to go through with this or not. Yeah, like I have a big choice.
So, I decided to weigh (excuse the pun) the options. On the one hand, I most definitely will feel better once I lose some of this weight. Right now, I can’t do anything except watch TV and even that is a struggle because I can’t stay awake. My wife has to do everything. Most husband would say that wasn’t such a bad thing, but I did. Yard work comes to mind immediately. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I don’t like seeing my wife pushing a lawn mower around the yard.
Speaking of sleeping, I tend to nod off in mid-sentence while talking to other people which annoys the hell out them. I can’t wear any decent clothes and I live in sweat pants.
On the other hand, they are going to cut me open like a haddock on a South Boston fishing dock. When they do, I really hope they up. It’s like I always say, “If you are going to cut someone open, you better do it right.”
I’ve never had an operation before in my life. I did lose a fingernail when I was a kid and I found no humor in it at all. No broken bones and I still had my tonsils. I have been pretty lucky in that regard.
However, since I have a pretty active imagination, the thought of what is about to happen to me is more than just a little frightening. I’m so afraid that when they do open me up, they will find something they didn’t want to find, like maybe another face staring back at them or something equally just as horrible. Then they will close me back up again because there is no hope.
I’m also very afraid that they will find something very serious like cancer. This happened to my Grandfather when I was just a child and it has haunted me ever since.
I told this to the doctor and he gave me that look that says ‘Jesus, relax will you? What the hell is wrong with you?” He reassured me that it probably won’t happen, especially the part about the face staring back at him. But notice he said ‘probably’ not ‘never.’ He also said that if he did see a face, nobody would know because he would running through the corridors screaming like Fay Wray in “King Kong.”
But, I still think that I have done everything you can do to abuse this old body of mine over the years. I smoked cigarettes like every one of them was going to be the last one before they shoot me. I over ate in mass quantities. Quantities that would make the circus fat lady blush.
The only exercise I got was stumbling to the bathroom, lighting cigarettes and pressing keys on my computer keyboard. I never walked and drove everywhere. I thought drive-up windows were a truly a gift from heaven.
As with most of my family, I also drank to excess many, many times. Plus, I wasn’t the type of drinker who would sit back in my study, sipping on a fine 50-year-old brandy while listening to Beethoven. I was the type who would chug a pitcher of Sangria just for laughs. I was like the late comedian, Chris Farley
Hell, I even did light drugs in my wanton youth. Why are you surprised? I was a child of the 60’s after all. I just did pot though. And unlike Bill Clinton, I inhaled, deeply. The only reason I never tried cocaine was because I thought I would like it, become addicted and then not be able to afford it. That was how my luck runs. It was very expensive in those days. I never tried heroin because the thought of giving myself a needle was impossible to comprehend. I’m sure though, that if someone did it for me, I probably would have given it a try.
And then where would I be? An overweight, drunk smoker, chewing on a piece of pizza with a needle in my arm and a rolled up dollar bill up my nose. Not a pretty sight by any means.
So now, my body has decided to turn against me and I can’t really say that I blame it. You can only abuse something for so long. After all, even a puppy will turn into a raging demon if you smack it enough times. Something I don’t recommend by the way.
I thought to myself I could get off the bed right now and make my escape, even though I could be caught in about three seconds by somebody who has prosthetics on his legs.
I could just refuse the thing altogether and be even a bigger miserable pain in the ass than I already was, but that’s probably not going to happen either. Let’s see, my choices are, get the thing done and feel better or leave here and sit in my futon vegetating all day. Some choice.
All I have thought about, up until this point was that I wanted this surgery so bad, I could taste it. I set this up with the surgeon in April of 2000. Now, here it is, August and it’s time to take the big ride. The time passed slower than a snail crawling uphill, but, at the same time, it sped by faster than that same snail falling off a cliff. Very, very fast.
The worst part of all this was the waiting. When I have a big event happening, I am the type who wants it done right away. If I have to wait, and have too much time to think, well, that’s never a good thing. For better or worse, let’s just get it done.
The emotional roller coaster of all this has been both astounding and aggravating at the same time. High one day and low the next. I was a manic-depressive patient waiting to happen. Over all, I have been just a complete nutcase about the whole thing.
The thing that surprises me though is now that the time is here; I have become remarkably calm and accepting of the whole process even though I was debating with myself about just canceling it. It’s almost like accepting possible death but at the same time, fighting it by getting the operation. I’ve got to do it or die; there are no two ways of looking at it. I already had congestive heart failure in May and I sure as hell don’t want to go through that again. I may be stupid but I can take a hint, you know?
All of a sudden, the attendants are there to take me away. They have no expression on their faces so they are giving me no clues. They’re trained that way at attendant’s school. We just kind of stare at each other in an uneasy silence. It’s like I was walking the last mile and they just got the rope ready. A momentary feeling of fright goes through me and I am shaking as I get on the gurney.
I felt like saying something to my wife like like “I hope you miss me Lefty. You can have my harmonica. Tell mother I love her.” Instead I kiss her, tell her I love her and say goodbye. Very dramatic.
I get on the gurney as best as I can because I can’t lie on my back. Because of my size, I can’t breathe when I lay flat, which reminds me yet again that I was making the right decision. The attendants help me up and I am fine or as fine as I am going to be.
Then we are on our way. As I am being carted away, all I can do is look up and I see the ceiling tiles whizzing past me. I think to myself how cool it would be if this were really an episode of “ER” instead of real life. I fully expect to see Noah Wiley or George Clooney, or better yet, Juliana Marguiles, looking down at me telling me that everything is going to be fine while they keeping yelling things like “Stat!” and “Get two pints of plasma ready!” Meanwhile the other doctors are taking care of sixteen crash victims who were just rushed in.
Finally, we arrive at the waiting area outside of the operating room and I am still scared. In fact, I’m borderline crying like a little girl. The nurse reassures me that I am okay and that I am in good hands which is what they always say to try to avoid a lawsuit. In my mind, I’m thinking that those same good hands are going to be inside of me very soon and what a wonderful visual that is.
The gas doctor introduces himself and seems like a likable enough guy. In fact he comes across like a grandfather who’s about to give me a Lifesaver and a pat on the head. That puts me at ease to a degree. Since I have to wait there for a minute and really have nothing better to do, I look around for a bit.
I look over and there is my surgeon. He always reminded of Rob Schneider from “Saturday Night Live.” who did a character that worked in the copy room of his company. When people would come in to make copies, he would say things like “Bob-o. Boborino. Make-in cop-ays.” I’m thinking, “Great, the copy guy is going to operate on me.”
He’s standing there with his green surgeon’s outfit, looking like he knows what he’s doing. He is also sipping a cup of coffee very casually leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a bus or something. To be honest, he actually looks kind of bored.
I’m thinking to myself that if he is this casual, then what the am I getting all excited over? He’s done this a hundred times before and even though I like to think I’m unique, I’m really not. To him, he has seen the inner workings of more people than you can shake a stick at. You seen one, you’ve seen them all.
He comes over to me and asks how I was doing. I felt like saying “Well, not bad for somebody who is the verge of being opened with a Black and Decker.” Instead I told him I was doing okay. He smiles at this and tells me not to worry and that it will be over before I know it.
I could take this two ways but figured I would adopt the optimistic point of view. I decided to just try and relax and let them do their business because they all looked like they knew what they were doing.
The nurse put something in my IV and the gas doctor checks it as well. I start to feel woozy and light headed which actually feels pretty good. I haven’t felt this good since the seventies. In fact, if I had a lava lamp and some Pink Floyd music, I would be golden.
My wife starts laughing at this because she is getting her revenge on me. She has had two surgeries. I always told her the best part of waiting with her was watching her get stupid from the drugs. She was always quite funny and would just ramble on and on. Now she is watching me and enjoying every minute of it.
Before they started to wheel me into the OR, they give me a mesh stocking cap to wear. In my drug-induced haze, I thought it looked rather stylish instead of making me look like a lunch lady. I teased my wife that I have one and she doesn’t saying stuff like “Nyah, nyah, nyah!” She gives me a look saying “Yeah, whatever you say, idiot” and just nods her head.
We arrive in the operating room, which kind of freaks me out because I really thought I would be knocked out by now. The reason I’m still with it somewhat is because I have to move onto the operating table from the gurney. They couldn’t very well lift me unless they had a motor block crane, so I have to give them a hand. I accomplished that with relative ease considering that I was so big and that the room was spinning.
Lying on my back, I can see all the lights and other neat stuff that they are going to use. It really does look like it does on TV. They take my arms and place them on boards so I look like I’m trying to fly. I thought I looked like a prisoner right before they give him a lethal injection. I see the gas doctor’s hand coming toward my neck. He starts fiddling around with the IV and before I know it, I’m off to Never-Never Land and that was end of that.
I have often wondered if they played music like the do on TV during the operation. If they did, I wonder what kind? In some ways I hope it was Chuck Berry or somebody just as good because I love the oldies. I also wonder if I said anything when I was knocked out that I could be convicted for at a later date. I remember a friend of mine telling me about when she was coming out of it after her operation, she started swearing like a truck driver for no reason. I start to wonder if the same thing will happen to me.
I woke up after what seemed to me was only five minutes. In reality it was three hours later. Of course I’m still very out of it. I am the recovery room and I have my eyes closed. I did try to open them, but everything was blurry and spinning, so why bother? Do you think it was because of all the drugs? Because I do.
I can hear the nurse telling me that everything went well and to not get excited because I have a tube down my throat. I thought I already had that figured out but it was nice to hear anyway. I would have hated to think that there was a snake or something in there. She sounds like she’s in the other room and I’m wondering why doesn’t she just doesn’t come over and tell me instead of shouting?
I can also hear the surgeon telling me in the background that it went smooth and that I am going to be okay. In his case, it sounds like he’s mumbling and I wish he would speak up, or at least come into this room. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out why the nurse is yelling and what I did to piss her off. Then the doctor started yelling and the nurse started mumbling. Why are they screwing around with me? Why can’t they just stand here and talk like normal human beings?
Even though she kept fading in and out, to me, the nurse’s voice sounded like an angel with a Boston accent. This immediately calms me down because I knew I got through it and I relaxed for the first time all day.
The tube doesn’t really bother me but in a bit, it felt like it was getting ready to set off my gag reflex in my throat. It feels like I am going to throw up and I try to tell her that. Wouldn’t that be something? To go through all of this and then die on your own vomit. I couldn’t even die without embarrassing myself.
I obviously can’t talk and I am trying to tell her through some convoluted hand gestures what’s wrong. I think I’m making plenty of sense, but God knows what the hell I looked like in my drugged out state.
She thinks it’s bothering me so she starts to hit me with questions. We start to play a cross between twenty questions and charades and I am getting ticked off because she doesn’t understand me and she doesn’t understand me because I’ve got a god-damned tube in my throat!
After about a minute of this song and dance, she finally gets it. I can hear the surgeon tell her to take it out, before I have a panic attack. And it should be okay.
When they did, I tried to say thank you but I had a voice that sounded like sandpaper rubbing on a blackboard. Like I just smoked a carton of cigarettes and then went to a football game and screamed my lungs out. I tell her what I was trying to say and she told me not to sweat it. I say thank you and immediately fall back to sleep. Great company huh?
I wake up again later, only this time I am in the intensive care unit. I know this because my wife was there and she told me. Also the surgeon said they would put me in there for the first night just to monitor me.
I knew it was standard standard procedure but it seemed like every monitoring machine in the hospital was being used just on me. In reality, it was probably only two or three, tops. Believe it or not, the beeping and other sounds are kind of reassuring. Just as long as I don’t hear one long droning noise, I will be fine. Although if there really was one long droning noise, I wouldn’t be alive to hear it anyway, so why bother thinking about it?
This really was the best and most relaxing sleep I have had in years. Probably because my mind wasn’t racing for a change and I just allowed myself to rest. Like I had a big choice.
I looked up to see my wife standing near my bed. That was the most reassuring sight of all. I say hello to her in my stupor and she says hi back. She says everything went fine and there were no problems. I said thanks and drifted off again.
Because I had sleep apnea, they had an oxygen mask on me but it was so damned hot in the room, at least to me, it was irritating my nose. So, I decided that it would feel and most likely look much better if it was over my eyes instead of my nose. Therefore, I decided to move it.
My wife tried to tell me that it would probably work a whole lot better if I kept it over my nose but I wouldn’t have it. In my delirium, I start arguing the point and kept moving it back over my eye. This happened at least three or four times.
I had asked her ahead of time to take pictures of me while I was in the hospital so I could have before and after shots. After trying to convince me that she was right about the mask issue, she decided to take a shot of me, right then and there so she could rag me about it later
I vaguely remember a flash going off as I was falling back to sleep. Apparently her and the nurse had quite a good laugh over this. As you can see by looking at the picture above, it really is quite funny. I also apparently asked of three questions repeatedly. Did she call my boss? Did she call my father? Did she have her hair done? It is amazing what morphine will do for you.
It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. I ended up losing 250 pounds. I have since gained back about 50 of those pounds but I still can say that I have lost 200 pounds! It’s something I am very proud of and as everybody I have ever talked to about this operation would say, I would do it again in a heartbeat. It saved my life and it really was the best thing to ever happen to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment