In the comments on my last blog post, reader “DFW” asked what I eat…and I promised that my very next blog post would give some juicy details in that area, so I’m here to deliver.

First, I have to give a little shout out to my nutritionist Amy…who is a total badass with super powers in patience. I swear, this woman has answered more insanely anal questions from me than should be allowed – but she’s weathered the Hot Mess storm like a champ. She’s instructed me not to pay attention to anything but my protein requirement of 80 – 90 grams of protein a day, so that’s what I focus on. Having a tiny tummy means it’s impossible for me to get that much protein from actual food each day without a protein supplement. Generally speaking, an ounce of chicken or meat contains about 7 grams of protein.

Since I have to eat so often and because I’m a bit of a geek, I renamed all my meals after Hobbit eating times. No judging. What the hell, right? Whatever makes it fun. Hobbits eat like they’ve got a hollow leg. Their meal times are Breakfast, Second Breakfast, Elevensies, Luncheon, Afternoon Tea, Dinner, and Supper.

Let’s start with breakfast.

I’ll be honest. I hate protein shakes. Even the most palatable shakes I’ve found are still a challenge for me, but I’ve found that if I get one down first thing in the morning the rest of the day is a breeze. So breakfast for me is one Premier Protein Shake. Chocolate. I have the Vanilla in my refrigerator but I haven’t been brave enough to try it. I have no trouble getting liquids down quickly, so I chug through my protein shake first thing in the morning while I’m waking up and watching the news. That’s 30 grams of protein before I ever leave the house. Then I chase it down with a sugar free peppermint to get the protein funk out of my mouth. Blech.

Before long, it’s time for Second Breakfast. Fortunately, I don’t have room for the crispy bacon, sausages, and potatoes that a Hobbit would eat for Second Breakfast. My Second Breakfast is much more reserved: one container of Kroger Carbmaster Yogurt. It’s quite tasty and they have unique flavors like Spice Cake and Pumpkin Pie, although I much prefer the Banana Cream Pie and Key Lime varieties. 9 more grams of protein down the hatch.

Next is Elevensies. 1 – 2 ounces of chicken is my usual choice here. That’s 14 more grams of protein towards my daily goal. I would love to alternate that with ground beef or ground turkey at some time, but I’ve learned from experience that they’re both too dry to be worth the effort. I could probably get more down if I liked any kind of dipping sauce with either of these options, but I prefer them sauce-free. At best, I can get down an ounce of either…and that’s not enough to be effective. I need to be sure that I can hit that protein goal every day – so chicken is my BFF.

For Luncheon, I usually go for another yogurt or piece of cheese. Sometimes I’ll eat a little bit of grapefruit, which isn’t a protein food but I have a bunch in my refrigerator and I don’t want it to go to waste. It’s packed in water, not sugary juice, and the fiber is good for me. I also occasionally enjoy a few reduced fat Triscuits and a wedge of Laughing Cow Light Cheese. The Garlic & Onion flavor rocks!

Afternoon Tea is usually more of the same: yogurt or cheese. I burned myself out on cottage cheese the week I graduated to soft foods after surgery and it’s like curdled white death to me now, so I stay clear of it. I’ve tried the Premier Protein bars, but they’re insanely high in calories for the same 30 grams of protein I get in one of their shakes. And they make me gassy.

It’s nice to have things to crunch on, but my post-surgery life requires that I eat protein first at every meal…and my tummy is so tiny that I can’t get much in after that. If I’m craving something crunchy or salty, I’ll eat my protein first and then I’ll eat 3 of HMH’s tortilla chips. Yep…just 3 tortilla chips. A far cry from the half bag I used to be able to mow through. I’m grateful.

Dinner is usually more chicken. Or carne asada. HMH’s steak tacos are amazingly awesome, but I don’t have room for the tortilla anymore so I just eat the carne asada…sometimes with some blue cheese crumbles dumped on top. Yum!!!

By the time Supper rolls around, I check my food log to see what my protein total is and then I make my decision based on how much more I need. Usually another yogurt will do…or some leftover chicken. I’ve recently discovered Atkins Caramel Chocolate Peanut Nougat bars. Incredibly awesome! They taste like a Baby Ruth candy bar. They’re too high in calories (180 per bar) to be an everyday snack or meal replacement, but if I’m craving something sweet this hits the spot 100% and gives me 10 grams of protein. If I’m way behind on my protein at the end of the day, I’ll choke down another protein shake (followed, of course, by another sugar free mint).

I average 80 – 90 grams of protein a day and 800 calories total. I have timers set on my phone to remind me to eat because I never get hungry.

“Head hunger” is another thing, however…

I still want to eat. I get the urge to graze mindlessly when I watch football – especially if the Cowboys are playing. It’s hard to be a Cowboys fan and not stress eat. Thank God I’m out of my misery for another season.

If I find myself in a situation where there’s tempting food around, I follow my surgeon’s advice. If I really want a taste of whatever it is, I cut myself a very tiny portion (about two small bites). I save whatever it is until it’s time for my next meal. I eat my protein first…and then I enjoy the little tidbit of whatever it is. I have yet to feel deprived following these rules.

There are so many times when I find myself wanting to eat. I’m never hungry now, as this surgery removes the portion of the stomach that secretes the hunger hormone (hence the reminders I’ve had to set on my phone). My head doesn’t know that, though. My head wants me to eat potato chips…and pizza…and ice cream. My head wants all those things. Technically speaking, I could eat them if I wanted to. I’m not restricted anymore. I simply choose not to. Those foods are gateway foods for me…and I don’t need to poke at my food demons right now. I didn’t put myself through a bunch of pain and drama in order to go right back to snuggling up with my food demons.

Right now, food is only a tool. I get nutrition from it and that’s all. Although I choose foods that taste good to me, I don’t necessarily enjoy them on the same level that I used to. I have to eat slowly. My food is often cold before I’m done and I have to go heat it back up again. I have to chew a million times before I swallow. I have to wait a minute or two before I take another bite. It’s a slow, calculated dance when I eat.

If I don’t eat slow, chew thoroughly, and wait a moment between bites then my stomach fills up super fast…and I feel massive indigestion-type pain…and then I throw up. Try something for me the next time you’re eating something that requires chewing. Take a bite, chew it well, and swallow. Now pay attention to it as it travels down your esophagus. Pay attention to how slow it moves down to your stomach. It’s an eye opener. When I think about how fast I shoveled in my food before surgery, I’m amazed. As soon as I’d swallow, I was loading up my fork again and putting it in my mouth. Eye opening.

I spent years practicing “mindless eating”. The slow, deliberate way I’m forced to eat now takes some of the “fun” out of eating for me – but I know that’s just because this change is still so new to me. In time, this will become my new normal. And what was fun about my old way of life anyway? Mindlessly eating until my stomach hurt. Lumbering around on sore feet. Endless guilt from eating crap I knew I shouldn’t be eating. I don’t miss any of that – so while I may still feel a little clunky about my new way of life, I couldn’t be more thrilled…because I can’t sabotage myself anymore. My food demons may still lurk about, but the self-sabotaging demon is dead and buried.

May she rest in peace.

Atkins Advantage Caramel Bars, Chocolate Peanut Nougat, 5 – 1.6 Ounce Bars (Pack of 3)

Eating Mindfully: How to End Mindless Eating and Enjoy a Balanced Relationship with Food

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!

I had an interesting thought pop into my head about a week and a half ago as I was transitioning from the full liquid diet to soft foods. Actually, it wasn’t as much interesting as it was bat shit crazy…but you be the judge.

I was in the kitchen trying to find something appetizing and protein filled to eat. This is a challenge for me for several reasons, but mainly because my sleeve only allows me to eat ¼ cup of food at a time. That’s about an ounce of ground beef…which is about 7 grams of protein. When your target is 80 grams of protein a day, you can see where that might be a problem when you can only eat 7 grams every few hours and you’re expected to get down at least 64 ounces of water as well. And you’re on a limited diet. And you can’t drink anything 10 minutes before eating or 30 minutes afterwards. Seriously, I’m constantly nibbling on food or guzzling water.

So there I was, standing in front of the open refrigerator, cursing the taco meat that I was long tired of…passing over the cottage cheese that was now threatening my upchuck reflex…realizing that I hadn’t had near enough water for the day…when I heard the voice in my head say, “I’m so tired of paying attention to myself…GEEZ!!!”

Uh oh…what?

I’m so tired of paying attention to myself. And I was. I was tired of focusing on what was going into my mouth. Tired of nagging myself to hydrate my body with water. Tired of tracking my food. It would be much easier (and totally my old habit) to conveniently decide that I need a break right now…and order pizza for dinner instead of cooking. I’d plop on the couch and just relax with my pizza. It would feel good to loosen the rules and splurge. That’s what is familiar and self-loving to me: breaking my promise to myself by eating crap on the couch. How confused my body must be when it comes to the insanity that comes from my brain.

And now what have I done? I’ve gone and had 85% of my stomach surgically removed so that I’m unable to overeat. In doing so, I had to jump through some pretty strenuous nutritional hoops including a long stint of liquids only. This, of course, resulted in my body freaking out entirely. I’ve run the gamut from untrustworthy farts to feeling like I needed a dynamite loaded suppository to get my system unblocked. (You’re welcome for the overshare, by the way.) So yeah…my body has to be wondering what on Earth I think I’m doing to myself. Eventually things will calm down and I’ll be left with a new normal.

I can’t just decide to let go for a while and have some pizza…or grab a bagel and cream cheese. I can’t have a bad day and grab a pint of ice cream. I physically can’t do it unless I want to make myself sick…or worse. But that was me loving myself with food (which isn’t very loving when you consider the negative results that come from such behavior). I can’t do that anymore. I have surgically stopped myself from being able to love myself in the only way I’ve ever really known. What’s more, I’ve surgically made it necessary for me to toe the eff’in line.

If I don’t get the right nutrition, I don’t heal. I don’t lose weight. I don’t do much at all, actually, because I don’t have the energy to do it. I no longer live in a world obsessed with calories. My world is protein. My world is tracking my water and protein intake to make sure I don’t end up sick, or worse…in the hospital. In these first weeks after surgery, I can suffer dehydration and malnutrition if I don’t pay attention to myself. I can also cause a leak in my sleeve, which would require me to go back to liquids until it heals, a fate almost worse than death to me at this point.

This is the hand of tough love that I dealt myself when I decided to opt for gastric sleeve surgery. I was fully aware that I was basically tough loving myself into submission. I’m talking about it today because I see countless patients lamenting these days as they go through the recovery process and it irks me somehow more than the decision I made that got me to this point of my journey. (And yes, my decision does irk me at times. It would feel good, although only briefly, to plop on the couch with that piece of pizza and just let loose…but we all know where that’s gotten me, don’t we? It’s still the closest thing to comfort and peace I’ve known in the last four weeks.)

I haven’t found a new way to love myself yet. I haven’t learned what that is. I don’t know what it looks like. I only know about choking down protein shakes…and that doesn’t feel very positive or loving. I’ll get there, it’s just going to take time. I am grateful, however, that I’m not like a lot of the folks I see online right now…also in their third week after surgery and lamenting on Facebook that “I just want a sandwich!!!!”

Jesus. I just want a buffalo wing, sweetie, but I’m not going to end up in the hospital because I can’t suck it up. Big picture. Hello!

I honestly don’t know where the strength came to make the decision that I did, but I’m glad I did. As I write this, I’m trying to choke down another protein shake. It’s difficult. It’s gross. It’s making me feel queasy. Part of me would much rather be mowing through something unhealthy. But I can’t. Not unless I want to cause myself some major pain and possibly start an infection or leak.

It sounds terrible, but before surgery the risk was “only” that I would gain a little weight. That should have been enough to stop me, but that’s never been the case. I’ve never cared more about myself than the treat I was putting in my mouth. But now? Fear of pain. Fear of infection. Fear of a leak. Fear of going back in the hospital. That’s what keeps me in line. And if that’s how I have to do it, that’s how I’m going to do it. This is Momma talking to the screaming toddler inside my head: sit in your time out until you can behave.

This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. Even the decision was hard to make, not just because I’d spent much of my life arguing that any kind of weight loss surgery was just bat shit crazy, but because I knew that it would rip me from the arms of the thing that’s loved me unconditionally my whole life: food. There are folks who say that surgery is taking the easy road…and that just makes me laugh. There is nothing easy about this.

I was walking through the office today and one of my co-workers, who’s been very supportive, stopped me and asked how much weight I’ve lost so far. 32 pounds, I told her. She frowned and said “32 pounds…that was what you said last week, though.” So many people expect me to say 32 one week and then 50 the next. The truth is that it’s not as quick as it is consistent. I always get to about 40 pounds and then I call for pizza and “relax” for a bit and end up blowing all my hard work out of the water. Now that I can’t call for pizza, I expect to see some real results…but it won’t be lightning fast.

Another factor in this equation is that protein I mentioned earlier. My body needs 80 grams of protein a day in order to do what it needs to do. I’m barely getting in 50 right now. I’m struggling…and the result is that the scale isn’t budging, my scars are healing slowly, and every day it continues is another day I risk significant hair loss. Finding ways to choke more protein down is the biggest challenge I’ve faced so far after surgery. I thought the Week One Post Op wet farts were the worst…but they weren’t (and thank God that’s over with!).

I fully plan to come back and talk about Week One Post Op and catch y’all up on life after surgery, but this is something I needed to talk about now…because it’s what I’m going through now. As I sit at my laptop, choking down my protein shake, this is what wants to come out. This whole process is about me learning how to get out of my own way. Although it’s harder than I thought it would be in ways I didn’t fully expect, it’s totally worth it.

Peeps, I am SO sorry that it’s taken me this long to write this. There’s nothing like an invasive procedure and 2 weeks of recovery time to completely jack up my schedule. I can’t seem to get all the way back to normal yet, but I appreciate you bearing with me while I get my asses in gear. Let’s get started talking about what is officially known as Day 1 Post Op.

After drifting between snoozes, walking around the entire floor, and obsessively clutching at the sponge-on-a-stick that I was allowed to wet my mouth with, it was finally time for the thing I’d been dreading almost as much as the surgery itself: the barium swallow test.

I didn’t have to wait too long in the morning before this hunky looking surfer/orderly named Kevin came swaggering into my room with a plus sized wheelchair to take me down to radiology for the big test. Even though he pushed me at a normal pace, I felt slightly dizzy and giddy in that chair…like I was in a car with Dale Earnhardt Jr. or something. Wait, sorry, I can’t stand him. Make that Ryan Newman. Anyway, I felt like I was speeding and we were really only moving at a normal pace. It made me realize just how slow I’d been shuffling down the halls all night long in my hideous beige slipper socks.

Kevin pushed me up behind another patient in a wheelchair and soon other patients began appearing behind me. We were like a bariatric conga line. Everyone looked drunk and nervous. After all, if we didn’t pass this test we wouldn’t be allowed to drink water or have ice chips and…well…shit was gonna get ugly soon if I didn’t get any ice chips.

Hunky Kevin stepped over to visit with the other hunky orderlies. Seriously, they were all handsome and my drugged up brain started wondering why they took jobs at the hospital where they ran the risk of seeing a very plus sized naked ass backing into their wheelchairs every day. I figure there’s probably an injured cheerleader wing somewhere in the hospital and they’re all just praying for the day they get to work on that floor, right?

“Paging Kevin the hunky surfer/orderly to room 717. Please escort the patient in the vagina sling to radiology!”

Hey, seriously, you land in the jump splits wrong on a hard floor one day and POW! You’ll know what I mean. I’m off topic, sorry…

There I was thinking about some poor cheerleader in a vagina sling when I distinctly heard Kevin speaking Russian. He said “Good morning”…so I said good morning back. He turned around and said “No way!”

I smiled and replied “That wasn’t Russian, dude!” Then, in Russian, I asked him what his name is. You’d have thought I bought him a new surfboard for Christmas or something. He was bouncing around in front of me and making me high five him, which I gladly did with my non-IV arm.

Before long it was my turn to be wheeled into radiology where I was met with a very patient male xray tech and my surgeon’s nurse practioner/aka angel in a white coat. Her name is Beryl and she’s the shit. You could be in a world of hurt and Beryl’s sun-shiney disposition would lift you right out. She rocks.

Of course, Xray Guy and Beryl are both wearing xray protective crap and I’m just standing there in my extra wide hospital gown while they scoot a tray table in front of me with a paper cup on it. Shit. Here we go. The first liquid I’m allowed to drink and I hear this shit is nasty. They get me into position. Xray Guy is holding a movable screen in front of me so that they can see my esophagus, sleeve, and small intestine. Then I get the signal to take a big swig of barium.

It’s hard to describe the taste of barium, but I’m gonna have to go with a combination between dishwashing liquid and lemonade flavored vomit. Yep. Something like that. I swallowed and willed myself to keep it down (even now while writing this I’m having to fight my upchuck reflex just thinking about it…ugh!). They watched it ooze down my esophagus, telling me what they were seeing – which in a way was quite fascinating. Then it stopped.

The barium stopped. Not moving. Crap! Beryl said it was going, it was just slow…so I heaved a huge sigh of relief and Beryl yelled “Ohh! There it goes! Whatever you just did, do it again!” Another big sigh and some forced relaxation and the barium was flowing into my sleeve…and then slowly into my small intestine. Test passed. Thank ya, Jesus!

My new Russian speaking BFF Kevin wheeled me back to my room, all the while asking me how I knew how to speak Russian. I had to explain to him that I’m so old that I took Russian in college during the Cold War…and there was no one I could talk to back then to keep it fresh in my head, so I’d forgotten most of it except the pleasantries. He was just learning it because it seemed fun to him…which actually was the reason I was learning it way back in the dark ages before Kevin was even a sperm.

I was back in my room for about ten minutes when my nurse, a lovely and wonderful soul named Kristen, came in with the best thing I’ve seen since Robert Downey Jr was born: a cup of ice chips, a cup of ice water, and a teeny tiny one ounce measuring cup. My instructions were to sip at the water and try to get one ounce down every 15 minutes. No eff’in problem, sweet cheeks. Lemme at that water!

I had no problems with the water or the ice other than forcing myself to slow down. It was the best water I’d ever tasted. A few minutes later, a very flamboyant man-child came in with a menu and showed me how to order my first official meal. Just something so simple as ordering food was wonderful to me. I was finally on the other side of surgery, no longer having to worry about anything but focusing on my own recovery.

I ordered cherry flavored sugar free jello and water with Crystal Light. Flamboyant Man-Child came flowing back into my room ten minutes later with a tray. The jello was great, even though they clearly used the same cherry flavoring they put in cough syrup to make it. It wasn’t jello brand that was for sure. I didn’t care. It still tasted like Heaven to me…and then Heaven walked through the door in the form of Hot Mess Hubby, ready to take me home.

Kristen had already let me change into my own clothes and I was sitting on the couch in my room, already tired of being in a bed all day. HMH helped me get my shoes on and we sat and waited through the long discharge process. I didn’t care how long it took. I had a death grip on my ice chips and I wasn’t going to let them go for anything.

I was soon wheeled out of the ward, into the lobby, and out into the frigid North Texas air. I thanked my nurse one more time and carefully got into the passenger side of my car, reminding HMH to take it easy driving it. When he picked me up after my thyroid surgery years ago, he forgot I couldn’t use my neck muscles and he stepped on the gas a little too hard. My head flew back like a freak’in PEZ dispenser.

We had a long drive home. An hour and a half to be exact. Every pothole and bump on the road was a painful reminder that I’d just been through quite a bit. If you’re considering this surgery, take a bedroom pillow with you to hold against your tummy on the way home. I wish I had.

Once home, HMH went in the house first and put the dogs out in the backyard. You haven’t felt fear until you’ve seen 300 pounds worth of dogs trying to maul you to death with their puppy love. Saint Bernards lean on you when they’re showing affection. In my weakened state I was sure I’d get leaned right through a wall. HMH came out to help me out of the car, but by the time I got through the front door Kirby (the smart one) had figured out something was up. She was standing at the back door, excited wiggling her booty, wanting desperately to get some Mommy snuggles. She hadn’t see me in a whole day, after all.

By the time I gingerly shuffled to the bedroom, she was standing on her back legs and pounding the door with her giant feet. Mommaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!

HMH helped me into bed and then he let the dogs in. The initial rush was a little frightening, but Kirby is an amazing dog and she knows when people are hurt. As soon as she was close enough, she laid down on the bed and put her head on my leg. She was still a wiggly ball of excitement but she knew not to jostle Mommy around. I stroked her head and spoke sweetly to her.

Dyson came up on the other side of the bed and I made sure to give him lots of head rubs and attention as well. Mommy was home and the puppies were happy. After a few minutes, they decided to go back to their busy schedule of napping.

Caesar the cat took up the first nursing shift. Every time I woke up he was there, watching over me. I’d get up and go to the bathroom, sit up and talk to HMH for a while, but when I went back to bed there was Caesar…waiting for me. After 24 hours, Kirby decided it was time for her to take care of me…so she didn’t leave my side for a long time. I had a weird menagerie of furry nurses taking care of me in that first week, which is a story unto itself.

Next time I’ll cover week 1 post op. It was an interesting expedition into the world of clear liquid protein and farts that can not be trusted. I hope you join me next time.

In the meantime, as always, if you have any questions…feel free. Ask away!

I keep not writing this and I don’t know why. Maybe I’m so grateful that it’s finally over I just don’t want to go back and relive it. LOL.

It’s not that the experience was bad, necessarily, it’s more that I’m so focused on an “eyes forward” mentality that any type of looking back seems like a bad move to me – but I need to get y’all caught up! So here we go…

By the time my surgery date rolled around, my brain was numb and I felt completely raw. I was scared, excited, and just…exhausted. I was so tired of beating myself down with the “what if’s” that I just wanted it to be over.

The drive to the hospital is an hour and a half from our home. Sure, I could have gone with a closer location but that would have meant giving up the surgeon I chose – and I wouldn’t have given him up for anything in the world. HMH and I got up super early that morning and drove up to the hospital and checked in. They gave HMH a piece of paper with a 5 digit number on it and told him that he could watch the monitors on the wall to see where I was at any given time. We sat and waited for my name to be called, watching other patient’s numbers go from In Facility to Pre-Op to Surgery to Post-Op to Recovery.

While we waited, HMH tried to keep my mind off of things by joking with me or talking about this and that. There was nothing that could shake me out of my “Oh my God, I’m having surgery” mode. I was scared…and I think most people would be. Surgery is a scary thing.

When they called my name, I had to go back by myself to meet with my pre-op nurse. She took my blood pressure (pretty high, go figure) and my temperature before giving me a delightfully awful paper gown to change into. As I sat in the room waiting for her to come back and put my IV line in, I just kept thinking “Okay, here we go…here we go…”

Poor HMH. My surgery was scheduled for 11:30 am and they didn’t come to get me until 1:20 pm. I had several meltdowns in those hours where I’d just start crying for no reason. All I could think about was what I was about to do. I was afraid of waking up in pain, afraid of something going wrong, afraid of the hospital being raided by zombies in the middle of my surgery. Every minute that ticked by gave me another opportunity to create hysteria in my head.

Finally the OR nurses and anesthesiologist came to see me and soon I was wheeled away from HMH, prompting another bought of tears. I think everyone has that moment where you wonder “Am I going to open my eyes again? Am I going to see you again? Am I going to be okay?” I had about 3,000 of those moments in the 2 minutes it took them to wheel me into the freezing cold operating room.

Once I was in the OR, the nurse explained that I was laying on an inflatable hover cushion and that they were going to inflate it and float me over to the operating table. It was a surreal experience. They’d given me something in my IV to relax me because I was crying, so here I’m feeling sort of relaxed and scared at the same time and it suddenly feels like I’m laying in a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Air is blowing all around me and they effortlessly pulled me over to the operating table. They deflated the cushion, but I guess I was on the table crooked so they told me they were going to inflate it once more and straighten me out.

At this point, my surgeon appears above me. He smiled down at me and said “I think they just like play’in with that thing, Dianne…” and disappeared again. My OR nurse, who was just about the sweetest person ever, could see that I was still upset – even on drugs. She took my hand and told me to squeeze it if I was afraid…and told me that she’d be there with me when I fell asleep and the whole time I was out. She explained that she would be there when I woke and that she wouldn’t leave me…and that everyone there was going to take such good care of me. I probably squeezed her hand right off, but I was so thankful for her. For all of them. The last thing I remember seeing was a water stain on a ceiling tile above my head.

Two hours later, I was conscious. My surgery was only 45 minutes long, but I was in recovery for a while. The first thing I remember was choking on the ventilation tube as they pulled it from my throat. Most people don’t remember this, so if you ever have surgery please don’t worry about it. I’d had two surgeries before this one and I didn’t remember it for either of those.

When I woke up, I was in a massive amount of pain – mostly from the gas in my body, not from my incisions. It was overwhelming. My voice was hoarse and raspy and I kept hearing myself say “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God” over and over…like a broken record. My recovery nurse’s name was Daisy and it pains me to tell you that I did, in my drugged up hysterical stupor, say the following…

“Oh…my favorite flower. Ow! Ow! Ow! Oh my God, oh my God…ow! Ow!! Daisies are my favorite…Ow!!! Oh my God…”

I could barely open my eyes, but I’m certain I saw her trying not to laugh. LOL. Poor thing. I’m not trying to discount my situation, but when I think about it I just giggle. Recovery room nurses are a special breed of people. God bless ’em all.

Daisy mercifully administered some kind of drug and I was pain free before I realized it. In fact, I was still say “Ow! Ow! Oh my God…” when she scooted over to me and calmly said “Dianne, I know it hurts but you have to stop panting if you want these meds to work. Slow your breathing….caaaaaaalm…..” I focused on her words and started breathing deeper and deeper…and only then did I realize that the pain was gone and that I could relax.

Two blonde nurse dudes showed up to take me to my room before I even had a chance to thank Daisy for patiently listening to my hysterical ramblings. I just remember looking up at one of them and thinking “Thor….?” I have no eff’in idea what the hell their names were.

As soon as they wheeled my bed into my room and I saw HMH standing there, I thought….home. Safe. Normal. I’m okay. He’s here. We’re okay. Thank you, God. There was never a sweeter sight than my scruffy look’in hubby standing there, reaching to grab my hand, telling me everything was ok. Thank God, thank God.

There was the normal hustle and bustle of nurses coming in and setting up my chart, writing on the white board, introducing themselves. I had a private room, thankfully, and HMH had a nice couch to stretch out on if he wanted to. After a couple of hours, I felt awake enough to crack a joke or two…and I decided it was time to walk.

All of the information that had been thrown at me since I started this journey came flooding back – and I remembered quickly that the best thing to do to move the gas pains along was to walk. So I called the nurse for help and I started moving.

I had 5 incisions across my belly, some tiny and some not so tiny. None are more than 1.5 inches in length. They were angry looking and bruised, but I expected that. Just as my surgeon had warned me, the one on the lower left was the one that hurt. I couldn’t feel anything from the others but that one on the lower left hurt like a mother. That’s where they did all the work. That’s where they put in the tool that pulled out 85% of my stomach after it was cut away…and in order to do that, they had to cut through muscle.

The nurse helped me up and I walked into the restroom for a quick pee and then walked about 50 feet down the hallway before I instinctively felt that it was enough. By the time I got back to my bed, I was feeling a little woozy. I looked at the clock and realized that HMH had been with me well over 12 hours. He had an hour and a half drive home. Certainly, the dogs were wondering what the hell was going on because one of us is always home. I sent him on his way and told him to be back in time to pick me up at lunch time. Why make him come back first thing in the morning when I’m just going to be scuffling along the halls in my slipper socks…dragging an IV rack with me. Things like this are hard on both halves of a couple. I wanted him to have a break.

I slept a little that night, but how much can you really sleep when they’re coming in to take your vitals every hour? Not much. I left the tv on, but I don’t remember watching anything but one episode of Downton Abbey that I happened to catch. Most of my night was a dreary routine of laying in bed, getting up, shuffling down the hallway, and coming back to bed. Each time I walked, I made a point to walk farther than I had before.

Most of all, I just kept thinking how grateful I was that most of the scary stuff was over. The only thing remaining that I was worried about now was passing the barrium swallow test in the morning. I wasn’t allowed any water or ice chips or anything until I passed that test in the morning. In the meantime, I was given a sponge on a stick that they let me wet with water and rub around on the inside of my mouth.

Sleep, walk, rest…sleep, walk, rest…and pray that I passed the swallow test in the morning. That was the path I was until morning.

Questions? I’m all ears…and I’ll be back soon to talk about discharge day.

 

Marc Jacobs Daisy perfume