Peeps, the holidays got the best of me. I’m so sorry for being negligent when it comes to catching y’all up on my post-op experience – and boy, was it an experience! Today I’m going to catch you up on the first days after surgery.

I’ve often bragged about how well my surgeon and his team prepared me for surgery and this whole experience. In fact, he warned me that the day after I got home from the hospital would probably be the worst day of my recovery. He was right.

What I didn’t expect, however, was the debacle that will forever be known as the Wet Fart from Hell. I know you’re thinking “Hey, HMP, it’s cool…you don’t need to share this part of your experience with us” but I can’t do that to you! I promised I’d share everything…and so into the smelly, awkward, slightly moist truth we go. Together.

As I was waking up from a hydrocodone coma, I felt a tiny little fart bubble up. How cute, I thought to myself. As I relaxed and started to let it go, I quickly realized that this was no tiny fart. In fact, this was no fart at all. This was the demon spawn created by a week and a half of liquids only…and it was banging at my back door, demanding release and threatening my clean sheets. Jesus!

I wasn’t able to pull myself up out of bed because the incision on my left side hurt so much. Hot Mess Hubby (HMH) had to help pull me up. I called out for him and he bounded into the bedroom to find me frantically motioning for him to help me up and yelling “I’ve gotta go! I’ve gotta go!!!” He pulled me up too fast and I doubled over in pain as I slid out of bed. Yowch!

No time to complain…I gotta go!

I waddled forward, frantically waving at him to get out of my way. “Move! Move!! Oh, God…please don’t let me poop my pants…” In two seconds, he was fully out of my way but my steps were tiny and careful because I was still so sore – not to mention hopped up on pain meds. I shuffled along as fast as I could, crossing the bedroom and waddling towards the bathroom doorway. There was a brief moment of panic as I felt another gas bubble coming, but I finally plopped my lily white booty on the toilet seat and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

I’ll spare you the details of what happened next, but suffice to say…I’ve never heard my body make such noises before. Ever.

Before long, it was time to gather what was left of my dignity and waddle around the house for my afternoon walk – but as I leaned forward and tried to pull myself up, I realized the complete horror of my situation: the toilet in our master bathroom is not bolted to the floor.

See…HMH is very “devil may care” when it comes to household repairs, I’m sorry to say. One day after watching too much DIY tv, he took our toilet apart in an attempt to fix a slight wobble. He was never able to figure out how to bolt it back to the floor. When I suggested we call a plumber, he insisted that he would figure it out.

That was two years ago.

So there I sat on the potty, unable to get up on my own. If I leaned forward, the entire toilet came with me…water and all. I had no choice but to call HMH back into the room.

Ya know…there’s nothing that kills the remaining mystery in a marriage like having to call your husband into a bathroom you’ve just polluted and asking him to pull your weak ass up off the toilet. I would have felt guilty about it, but part of this was his bad karma for taking two years to fix the damn toilet.

As it turned out, I was sitting too low for HMH to be able to pull me up. Every time we tried, I got a horrible burning pain in my side. I couldn’t do it. The walls are at a weird angle in the master bathroom and I couldn’t get a firm enough grip on anything to pry myself up. Great. There I sat…my ass going numb…wondering what the hell to do. Then HMH disappeared.

I heard him thumping around in the closet for something. When he returned, he handed me the wooden walking stick we bought together on our first trip to Sequoia, California ten years ago. It’s about 5 feet long and made from a gnarled old tree branch…kind of like Gandalf’s staff. Suddenly all I could think of was that scene in The Lord of the Rings when Gandalf faces off with the fiery Balrog and yells out “You shall not pass!”

Great. Now I’m frigg’in Gandalf.

After several more minutes of pushing, pulling, grunting, and wheezing I was finally free from my wobbly porcelain prison. Thank God. And Gandalf.

The first couple of days were rough, but why wouldn’t they be? I’d just put my body through a huge ordeal and I was hardly getting any nutrition. I wasn’t sleeping well. I’m a side sleeper and it was much too painful to sleep that way. I was surviving on sugar free popsicles, sugar free jello, and water. Oh and…Isopure.

Isopure is a clear protein drink that I was supposed to drink starting on day 5 post op. You can buy it at GNC stores and it comes in cute flavors like Grape and Alpine Punch…but that’s not what it tastes like. It looks like Kool-Aid or Snapple but it’s just another lie the dillholes at Isopure are trying to trick you with. Trust me. It tastes like dish detergent and bile. Not. Even. Joking.

(Hairdo courtesy of taking a shower at 3 am and climbing into bed while trying not to shit my pants, then passing out on pain killers. Glamorous!)

I only managed to get one down a day. It should have been two, but I just couldn’t do it. As if the taste isn’t bad enough, my tongue felt like carpet after I took a swig. It’s the nastiest stuff imaginable and I couldn’t do more than a bottle a day – in fact, I would take a swig of Isopure and two swigs of water. That’s what I did all day, every day. By the time I got to Day 8 post op and full liquids I was ready to hump the leg of the guy who invented the protein shake.

Lastly, I know some of you are interested in the gory details of this surgery. How many scars, what did they look like, etc. I have five fairly small scars on my tummy: four in a row across my middle and one very tiny one just under the center of my boobs.

I took a picture of my scars the day after I got home from the hospital – however, I have no desire to freak y’all out the way some people do in the online support groups. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been scrolling through posts and BOOM there’s a hideously gory picture of someone’s bloody stomach spread out on a surgical tray. It’s beyond vile.

If you would like to see the photo of my scars, you can click this link and you’ll be able to see it. The only scar not visible is the tiny one that’s up under my boobs. I couldn’t hold my shirt up and work the camera…sorry!

I’ll be back in a few days to talk about the weeks following my surgery. In the meantime, feel free to ask questions or share your own wet fart horror story. By all means, don’t leave me hang’in out here on my own!