Post-op, part 1

Surgery went swimmingly. It took just about an hour from first cut to last suture. They poked six holes in my abdomen — five of them for cameras and delivery of carbon dioxide (to inflate the belly); the sixth, about 15mm wide, through which the doc worked his magic.

The recovery room was hell. Despite three forms of nausea prevention drugs administered in the pre-op room, I came out of surgery ready to puke my guts up. This, of course, would have been a bad, given that I’d already lost 80 percent of them in surgery and the rest were held together with staples. Add to that some pretty serious pain — which likely contributed to the nausea — and I was a hot mess.

The recovery room nurses weren’t very nice. It’ll shock you to learn that I was not very nice right back. At one point, one of them said, “You just had surgery. It’s supposed to hurt.” My response: “Wow. You should pick up some bedside manner next trip to the store.”

It wasn’t long before they released me to my room.

Lesson 1: Don’t get too settled in a place you’re not comfortable and they won’t make you stay.

The next few days are a blur of pain and morphine and staring off into space and very interesting dreams. Oh, and walking. Walking, walking, walking.

In the blur of a hospital stay, few things stand out. One of them a nurse named Craig, a tall, gentle soul with a firm grip on how to get out of the hospital quick. Early the first evening, as I drifted in and out of sleep, he whispered in my ear.

“If you want to go home soon,” he said, “you have to do three things: Master your breathing exercises. Get off the morphine pump. And amaze everyone with how often you’re up walking around.”

Instantly, in my drug-addled haze, I had a goal.