Frankenbelly

There's a four-inch incision in the middle of my lower belly. At present, it's held shut by a row of shiny metal staples. Kid pulls up my shirt to see it, a look of doctorly concern on his face. "That's Mommy's boo-boo!" I tell him. He nods, knowingly. Pulls my shirt back down, pats me gingerly. Then he points to his most recent bruise or bump or scrape. "Mama?" he says, little eyebrows pointed up in a question. "Yep, buddy, that's YOUR boo-boo." Solidarity.

Does he remember, I wonder, coming out of my belly? The quick yank that brought him out of the warm, aquatic world of my abdomen, and into the dry brightness of his life outside of me?

I remember it. Strapped to the table with my arms spread wide, barely able to see over the surgical drape. Pressure, voices, clinking of instruments, and then that little squall of him, tentative at first and then louder, louder, louder still. Startled by the separation, maybe? Or simply cold, or made grumpy by intruding, tugging hands.

Four times now I've been on the operating table. He was the first, and the scariest. Everything was new, unknown. How quickly it's become routine: bloodwork, IVs, nurses and doctors and gurneys with wheels that rattle and squeak as I'm taken from one room to another. Drugs that make me babble and cry and (sometimes) flail as I wake up, my own rude awakening, pulled from anesthesia into consciousness again.

My little man looks at me with his tiny doctor's face, furrowed brow, and I look back at him. We understand the journey. Solidarity.

211.2

Since I wasn't able to weigh myself on Friday, I hopped on the scale this morning after Hubs and Kid left for the day. Not bad, not bad.

I drank a looooot of water in the hospital (I learned after my C-section that the more you pee, the more likely they are to send you home) and so far I've managed to keep it up at home. I'm averaging about two liters a day. Plus, thanks to my SUPER-FANTASTIC-AMAZING-THERE-ARE-NOT-ENOUGH-POSITIVE-ADJECTIVES-TO-DESCRIBE-HER mom, my fridge is full of salad, chicken, low-fat yogurt, fruit, and Lean Cuisines. As if that weren't enough, Hubs fulfilled my request for a big pile of pineapple and raspberries, so I've had that for breakfast. Mmmmm.

I'm having a little trouble with this whole inactivity thing, though. I mean, I'm not ready to go run the Boston Marathon, but sitting around all day with a book and/or my laptop, nodding off for a nap every few hours? Not as fun as it might sound. It might be easier if I were in pain, but (finally!) I'm not -- even without the painkillers. My incision is a little sore, mostly because it's healing around the staples, but I was in more pain on a daily basis before the operation than I am now. So my brain says, "Well, shit, you went to work and school and took care of the house and did all your usual things when we were in pain...now we have no pain and you're doing diddly squat! Get off your butt and clean something!"

It doesn't help that Smith is in full-on crazy fitness mode. He decided that he wanted to get back into "good shape" and thus has been working out like a madman, sneaking over here in the early morning to use our gym, using the gym at work, etc. Oh and apparently he's swimming, too? (There you go, ladies. Thought for the day: Smith in a Speedo.) I'm jealous! I want to swim! I want to run! I want to have biceps that don't fit through my shirtsleeves! Wait...what?

I'm trying to be patient. I keep telling myself to let my body heal, that my motivation will still be there when my body is finally ready. It's just a matter of time.

Poop: It IS That Simple!

If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you already know it's been quite an interesting few days for me. As I wrote in my last post, on Wednesday I saw my surgeon and had a bunch of fluid drained from my Lump of Doom, and ended up in a lot of pain, more pain than I'd had before he drained the silly thing. Well, I woke up Thursday morning feeling okay, despite the fact that the Vicodin prescribed by Doc Basil's office hadn't done squat for the pain. But I figured, get up, shower, go to work (where I always have fun) and you'll feel better. If the pain didn't go away, I was going to call and see if I could get a different prescription (nothing like a little drug-seeking behavior, eh?).

Anyhoo, I got to work and pretty much knew after an hour or so that something wasn't right. The pain was still there, I felt barfy and sweaty and just...wrong. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to get help from my doctor's office, to no avail. I got transferred between two offices and about four different people before one of the nurses/assistants told me, "If you're in that much pain you should just go to the ER," and HUNG UP ON ME. I called Hubs in tears and asked him to come get me; the pain was so bad I knew I couldn't drive. My awesome-sauce boss, who is like a combination super-mom and big sister and more all rolled into one, told me to get the hell out of there and take care of myself.

Hubs loaded me into the Jeep and I got back on the phone, finally reaching the office manager at Doc Basil's practice. Unlike pretty much everyone else I talked to, she actually sounded like she gave a crap. She conferred with another doctor and told me they thought I might be having an allergic reaction to the Vicodin, and that I could either come to the doctor's office the next day or go to the ER immediately. By the time she said that, we had already reached the hospital, so the decision was already made. I was in so much pain at that point, I really didn't care.

And oh, that pain. I like to think that I'm pretty tough, after a C-section and two abdominal surgeries, but this pain brought me to tears. It felt like someone was trying to push open the left side of my ribcage from the inside out, and someone else was stabbing me in the belly at the same time. I described it to Hubs as labor pains plus a gall bladder attack, just without the baby and the gall bladder.

We walked into the (nearly empty) ER and I explained to the receptionist what I thought was going on. The triage nurse checked me over and I was taken back almost immediately. Out of my work clothes and into the old familiar green hospital gown. Here we go again, I thought. Hubs was trying to keep my spirits up by making me laugh -- "Hey, hopefully they admit you so we don't have to pay the ER copay!" but by the time the ER doc came back to examine me, I was sobbing. I had started throwing up (and managed to pee all over myself in the process, lovely!) and I was just, for lack of a better or more descriptive term, DONE.

They started an IV (thank you, Paramedic Student, for being quick and managing to put the line in my hand without hurting me!) and gave me pain meds -- Dilaudid, otherwise known as HOLY SHIT THIS STUFF IS STRONG -- and had me sipping on a big bucket of ginger ale laced with CT contrast solution (not bad, it tasted like a Seven & Seven). My mom showed up so Hubs could go get Kid from school, and not long after he left they wheeled me off for a CT scan.

Within an hour I had my diagnosis: ANOTHER HERNIA, plus a bowel obstruction. Seems my intestines decided to bust through my abdominal wall yet again, and this time they wanted to play Twister. The bowel obstruction had caused a whole bunch of loveliness to back up into my stomach, making me nauseated and beyond uncomfortable.

(I have to pause here for a second to say that this speed of service is EXACTLY why people go to the ER instead of seeing a regular doctor. In a few hours, the ER had treated my pain, given me all the necessary tests, and identified the problem. So why does the same process take WEEKS when you see a regular doctor?! Our healthcare system is effed, people. EFFED. But that's another post for another day.)

Of course I still had my iPhone with me, so I texted Hubs and Smith to tell them the news. Smith, remembering our last conversation, was pretty triumphant:


Poopy system, indeed!

Hubs, on the other hand, was angry. Why was this happening again?! My mom was angry, too -- I was terrified for Doc Basil. I think if he had showed up at that point, my mom would have either punched him in the face or clawed his eyes out. Me? I just wanted it fixed. I didn't really care why it was happening, I just wanted it to stop.

Before Hubs could even make it back to the hospital, they were prepping me for surgery. At my mom's request, a different surgeon (we'll call him Doc Hamburger) was doing the procedure. He explained that, because my intestines had twisted, there was a chance that he might have to do a bowel resection -- meaning, if the intestinal tissue was damaged or dead, he'd have to cut it out. He wouldn't know until he got in there.

They started the now-familiar routine of pre-op procedures: blood draws, questions about religious preferences, discussion of anesthesia. The anesthesiologist told me that because I'd thrown up earlier, they'd have to put in an NG (naso-gastric) tube just in case. They planned to do it while I was knocked out, but it would have to stay in after the surgery. High out of my mind on Dilaudid, I really didn't think about it.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital room (unlike my previous surgeries, I don't remember the recovery room AT ALL) with a tube in my nose. The NG tube. The horrible, uncomfortable, disgusting, NG tube. It was like a plastic loogie in the back of my throat, a loogie that gurgled and hissed and pumped the contents of my stomach out before my eyes. Every time the nurses asked me what I needed or wanted, I pointed at my nose and tried to look pitiful. Every time, they explained, as sweetly as possible, that it had to stay. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink. I could suck on ice chips, and that was it.

Friday morning, Doc Basil showed up to do rounds. Again, I pointed to my nose. He explained that it had to stay; they were trying to "rest my bowels" by preventing anything from my stomach from having to go through them. I was not happy about this. By this time I was starving, my throat hurt, and I was sick of seeing my own stomach contents pass through a tube in front of my face.


Not a happy camper. Not at all. And why, yes, that IS my bile running through that tube! DELICIOUS!

Doc Basil explained that later in the day, they'd hook my NG tube to a "gravity bag" (basically a drain bag without a pump) and if less than a certain amount of stuff came out of my stomach within a four hour period, the tube could come out. I was ecstatic. He also told me that I could have Chloraseptic (for the raging sore throat I'd developed) and LifeSavers (I guess just to be nice). I was still really grumpy, hungry, and tired; it'd been nearly impossible to sleep the night before, between the NG tube, medication and IV changes, and constant checks of my vitals. I couldn't even get out of bed to pee. All I could do was lay there and try to rest. The morphine shots helped, but only knocked me out for about thirty minutes at a time. Oh, and do you want to hear something funny? Morphine makes me nod out like a junky. My head lolls over and I start drooling. I can only imagine what I looked like, drool pooling in the little well behind my clavicle.

So eventually they hooked up my gravity bag, and I was staring at the clock, waiting for that magical four-hour mark. My mom and Hubs took turns staying with me, comforting me, trying to calm me down (I had threatened to yank the tube out myself, I was so sick of it). Several of my friends offered to visit and I turned them down -- I didn't want anybody to see me like this!

As the magical hour of tube-removal approached, a nurse came back to my room and told me I had visitors. My mood had improved considerably by that point (yay drugs!) so I told the nurse to send them in. It was one of my best friends and her husband, and I was so happy to see them. They brought flowers, and a book, and Sudoku, and lip balm, and most importantly, smiles. Their visit got me through the last stretch, that never-ending hour before the NG tube was removed.

So the tube came out, and the relief I felt was beyond amazing. My throat was still hurting like crazy, but that awful, nagging loogie was gone! I could turn my head without pain! I would (hopefully) be able to sleep! And -- dare I say it -- I might be able to have BROTH in the morning! My spirits were lifted and I felt a million times better.

Saturday and Sunday passed like most of my other days in the hospital: rounds in the morning, reading through the day, hospital food, friends coming to visit, more reading, finally peeing alone (adios, catheter!), morphine injections, IV fluids, Heparin injections in my belly, ridiculous bedhead from plastic pillows...



They worked me up to solid foods by Saturday at dinner time. My mom and Hubs were there with me through all of it, bribing the nurses with coffee and hot chocolate from Starbucks, brownies from the Farmer's Market, sandwiches from Tropical Smoothie. More friends visited -- Smith's wife brought me tea on Saturday night, Smith came to hang out on Sunday -- more flowers came. I finished the first three books of Stephen King's Dark Tower series (how lucky was it that I had picked up a ton of books at Book Exchange on Wednesday?). I watched no TV. I did laps around the ward with my IV in tow. We agreed on Monday for my discharge date. The usual stuff.

Mom brought me home yesterday, after a quick pit-stop at Starbucks and a trip to the Target pharmacy. She made me lunch and stocked my fridge with groceries. She made sure I took a shower, and before she left told me that if I didn't stay upstairs, in bed, that I'd be in serious trouble. I took my pain meds and curled up for a nap. Being in my own bed was HEAVEN.

Last night was pretty normal. Hubs made tacos and I managed to get downstairs for dinner. Kid, who'd been with his grandma pretty much all weekend, was his usual sassy, chatty self. I missed him so much!

So that brings us to today...a fairly normal Tuesday, save for the fact that I'm in bed blogging instead of working. I'm on orders to rest and do as little as possible for the next two weeks. I'm thinking there will be a lot of writing, a lot of reading, and that's about it. Call, text, or come by -- I'm not going anywhere for a while.

Thanks to everyone who expressed their love, concern, and support. I received a ton of emails, Tweets, Facebook messages, and phonecalls over the weekend, and every single one of them helped me feel better. I love and appreciate all of you -- both my "IRL" friends and those I know only online. You guys are awesome!

GPOYW, Drains in the Belleh, and a Conversation with Smith

So here I am on a Wednesday, hair looking a little Robert Smith-ish, slightly tired. Once again wearing my beloved black Vans t-shirt, even though it has holes in the armpits and probably qualifies more as charcoal grey than black.

I was off work today, Kid was in school, Hubs at his office. I had a lazy morning (kind of -- it's not really lazy if you're cleaning bathrooms and washing sheets) and then headed to my doctor's office. (In case you're not familiar with my medical saga, I've been having problems with my belly since my C-section in 2008. I had a hernia, had the hernia repaired, had my gall bladder out, and had to have the hernia repair fixed. It's been a giant pain in the you-know-what. And of course, just when I think it's done, something else happens. What happened this time? Mysterious, excruciating abdominal pain paired with yet another lump in the area of the hernia.) Anyway, I finally saw my surgeon today. I explained what was going on, and he did a quick ultrasound that revealed a big pocket of fluid where my hernia used to be. One giant needle later, he'd drained about four ounces out of it, and told me I should be fine. He said the pain was probably being caused by all the pressure of that accumulated fluid.

Well, I'm not fine, of course. I'm home and in worse pain than I was before he drained the stupid thing, and it's already filling back up. Lumpy's Revenge. Now I have to go see a radiologist and have a drain installed (that just sounds wrong!) in my belly. The hope is that if the fluid can drain continuously, the pocket where the hernia used to live will close up and that will be the end. In the meantime, I've been given a prescription for pain meds. That's awesome, except that when I have to come OFF the pain meds, I'll go through that ridiculous sugar binge cycle I run into every time I take opiates or oxycodones or whatever they are. *sigh*

I'm trying really, really hard not to sit here and wallow in self-pity. I mean it. I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me or stroke me or hold my hand (although delivery of Thai food, Vogue, and a gin & tonic would be lovely). I just want this to be over and done with already. I've wasted so much time dealing with medical problems. I know I'm supposed to learn something from all of it, that there's a greater plan, that it's all happening for a reason, but right now I just want to stomp my foot and shake my fist at the sky and yell, "ENOUGH ALREADY!"

At least now I can stop speculating about what's going on in my abdomen. I wouldn't call myself a hypochondriac, but I do tend to imagine the worst when it comes to any sort of medical problems. Smith loves to give me a hard time about this:

Me: "My belly hurts. I think I have pancreatitis."
Smith: "You don't have pancreatitis. You need to stop looking at WebMD and go take a poop."

Poop. If only it were that simple!

211

The girls at school are having their own "Biggest Loser" competition, and while I'm not participating, it has made me pay more attention to my eating habits. I've done pretty well this week, save for a little overindulgence in the alcohol department. I was pleased when I stepped on the scale this morning.

My weird and as yet unexplained abdominal pain is still keeping me from exercising, but the urge is there. The urge to go slam out a mile, or two, or three on the treadmill, music pumping and brain shutting off after the first ten minutes. I need it, badly. So, I'm heading back to my doctor's office in two weeks (the earliest appointment I could get) and hopefully he'll be able to figure out the problem (again) and fix it (again), hopefully without surgery.

Oh, and I realized after reviewing my last few blog posts that I failed to report some very exciting and awesome news -- SMITH ISN'T MOVING! So among all the not-so-fantastic stuff I've been dealing with, there's a small ray of light. My number one cheerleader (and ass-kicker) is staying right here. Woo hoo!

RIP Heidi Montag

Cue the triumphant music, bitches.

Remember that checklist of medical issues I wrote a while back? Well, I'm super stoked to tell you that ALL of those issues are resolved. For realsies. Fred the Face Lump -- GONE. My knee -- still hurts from time to time but the orthopedist found no problems. And most importantly, my own personal pain in the ass, Heidi Montag, is DEAD AND GONE.

(Before people start wigging out and zipping over to People.com for confirmation, I have to clarify: I gave my gall bladder a nickname.)

This past Friday, my wonderful and trusted surgeon (Doc Basil) put some dime-sized holes in my abdomen and fished out my stone-filled and pain-inducing gall bladder. While he was in there, he also checked my mystery lump and found it to be (as he suspected) a pocket of fluid. And as if that were not enough, he discovered the cause of those debilitating pains I had back in September -- the surgical mesh used to repair my incisional hernia had SLIPPED as the area healed. Super fun, huh? At least now I know it wasn't all in my head.

Anyway, so here I am four days out from surgery, and I feel pretty much awesome. The only ookie part of this whole ordeal is that the fluid pocket thingy is still draining. What that means is every couple of hours I have to swap out a big wad of gauze pads that are taped to my belly. Gross, yes, but it's a hell of a lot better than having some mystery lump staring back up at me.

The physical stuff is straightforward, but there's also been an emotional change that I can hardly wrap my brain around. The best way to describe it is to say that it's as if somebody lit a bonfire under my ass. I have never, and I do mean NEVER, felt so motivated to get things done in my entire life. I'm not talking about housekeeping, or writing, or just scratching things off the To Do list. I'm talking about making all the changes that I've been talking about and dreaming about for years. I'm talking about having concrete plans for work, exercise, family, and travel. I'm talking about looking at those goals that seemed unattainable and KNOWING, not just thinking but KNOWING, that they are attainable. I feel inspired, ambitious, passionate, and excited about my life. And man OH man, is it a good feeling.

So what are these things that I'm so excited to tackle?

• I'm finally, finally, FINALLY taking the NCE and getting my license to practice massage therapy. I've sent in all my paperwork, scheduled a test prep class, and now I'm just waiting for a test date.
• I've decided that after the NCE, I'm going to finish my Associate's Degree. I looked over some of my school paperwork, and I'm actually much closer to being done than I thought I was. I'm scheduling an appointment with an admissions/advisory person at the local community college before the end of March.
• After the Associate's is done, I'm considering going to esthetics school. It's a 600 hour program, and it would cost a good chunk of change, but being both a CMT and a licensed esthetician would make it extremely easy for me to either a) get a full-time position at a spa or b) start my OWN business, which is really what I'm more interested in.
• FITNESS! I had a fantastic workout with Smith on the Wednesday before my surgery. It felt so good, and it was exactly what I needed. He gave me a serious kick in the booty along with some great words of motivation (I'll be writing more about those later).

This is my year, kids. This is the year we're going to make it all happen. Let's GO!

Let's Get It Done

I spent an hour at my doctor's office this morning. (Of course, of those sixty minutes, only twenty were actually spent in her presence.). I had a list of issues for her -- facial cyst, gall bladder, recurrent mystery bulge, and my knee. She patiently listened as I explained each thing, then she did a few quick assessments. Three prescriptions and three referrals later, and I'm not fixed yet.

So what's on deck for 2010 so far?

• I'm seeing a plastic surgeon about the facial cyst. Since I've lost weight, it's far more noticeable (to the point that someone asked "What IS that?!" on meeting me for the first time), and I want it gone. My regular surgeon could have taken care of it, but as my doc said, "You probably don't want that type of surgeon cutting on your face." Hopefully, they'll be able to hack it out without putting me under, and I'll be in and out in one visit. Hopefully.
• I'm going to an orthopedic surgeon to get my knee assessed. I'm guessing that he'll poke at it, and then order an MRI. So, more waiting, and more tests for which I'll have to shell out hefty co-pays.
• I'm heading back to my regular surgeon who'll decide if my gall bladder needs to come out (again, probably more expensive tests and waiting). If it does, then he can take a peek at the mystery bulge while he's poking around in my belly. If there's something to fix, he'll fix it.

Oh! And according to the doc's scale, I've only gained back four pounds, which really isn't too bad in my opinion. She was really pleased with my overall loss, and about peed her pants with excitement when I told her I did a 5k and had enlisted the help of a trainer. She says she'll do whatever she can to help me get all this mess resolved so I can get back on track with exercise.

I'm trying to keep my food under control, but the gall bladder stuff is making it difficult to eat. About twenty minutes after I eat anything, I either feel a) pukey or b) agony. I can take meds for either, but only when the Hubs is home, since both drugs result in serious loopiness and/or coma-like sleep.

Anyhoo, that's about it for now. Waiting, painkillers, and more waiting. I hope your 2010 has started off on the right foot!