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.

And, here we are.

Today was big.

It was my last day on diabetes medication. At 2:30 this afternoon, I left my endocrinologist’s office with no plan, medicinal or otherwise, for managing diabetes going forward.

No plan because after tomorrow, the expectation is, I’ll no longer be a diabetic. We’ll check back in three months, just to be sure. But based on how my blood sugars have acted during the liquid diet, it looks promising.

And so...

Nothing by mouth after midnight.

A nail appointment at 10 a.m. (Oh, shut up.)

Report to the hospital at 11 a.m.

From there is anyone’s guess. The surgery was scheduled for 3 p.m., but when the nurse called today to move up my report time by 2 hours, she hoped that I could “be flexible.” I told her I could, as long as “be flexible” means “surgery will be done earlier than 3 p.m.”

She laughed, but wouldn’t commit.

I’m nervous. And excited. And so goddamn ready.

Thank you, every one of you, for being so awesome through these horrible two weeks. Knowing you were there made a bit easier being here.

Special love to you, Spirit Guide. Keep the good juju coming, will ya?

Aight, Village. Let’s do this.

See you on the other side.

xoxo.

Feed. Me.

I was right.

The respite was temporary. After a week of fairly easy going — with a business trip thrown in for good measure — the screaming hunger pangs came back in full force yesterday. Also back: hopelessless. I have fewer than 48 hours before this is over and despite serious attempts to talk some sense into myself, I'm fairly certain I’m never going to make it.

I’ve tried for a day or so to find words to describe the empty feeling in my core. I’m typically one who thinks in colors and often they're cliché. Black would seem to make sense here, but it’s not right. The color I'm feeling has more depth than black. More texture. More angst. Which I didn't think possible.

Other charming things:

There’s an awful taste in my mouth that I'm pretty sure everyone can smell. I don’t know what that means, exactly. But I’m pretty sure of it.

I can’t focus my attention. At all. On anything. Driving to church today was nigh on impossible, which is just what you want in a moving vehicle.

Just before “dinner” last night, I lost my ability to cope with even the smallest irritant. Fortunately, I haven’t yet lost my ability to realize that’s where I am, so I haven’t yet followed through on a sincere desire to strangle someone, anyone, to within an inch of her life.

So, it’s 8:02 p.m. the evening before the day before surgery. It sucks. And it’s almost over.

The end.

A word about Paula

I’m not one to cut celebrities much slack when it comes to “I’m too famous, woe is me.”

I’m not famous. I take the bad with the good. Same should go for celebrities. Fame carries a price. Good thing those who have it also have buckets of money to pay the piper.

So why would I care about Paula Deen?

I barely know who she is, frankly. I once watched her make a soufflé on TV and wondered, aloud probably, a) why’d she do that to her hair? b) what kind of spray tan turns you such an awful shade of orange?; and c) why does her “gently fold in the egg whites” look so much better than my “gently fold in the egg whites?”

Oh, and I once thought it might be nice to dine at her restaurant in Savannah. Then I discovered the line was more than two hours long. Fluffy egg whites or not, unless you’re serving solid gold bars iced with platinum, I don’t wait two hours to eat.

That’s what I knew about Paula Deen, until two days ago, when she became the Anti-Christ.

Paula Deen has Type II diabetes. It was diagnosed three years ago. She kept it a secret because, well, that’s her right.

When she made it public, as the spokeswoman for a diabetes drug, she apparently crossed the river Styx and descended into Hades. Now, the world has decided that because Paula Deen writes cookbooks and does cooking shows that contain recipes for foods that any moron knows must be eaten in moderation, her weight, lifestyle and plan for treating her disease are fair game.

And the viciousness has been breathtaking.

She cooks with butter? Serves her right.

She bakes pies? For shame.

She adds bacon to her mashed potatoes? Off with her head!

Worst of all, her diagnosis has somehow made her responsible for the health of anyone who’s ever cooked a Paula Deen recipe. By that reasoning, every winery owner is responsible for alcoholism and every automaker is responsible for car wrecks.

It’s as sickening as it is stupid.

Paula Deen made her bed. She’ll have to live with the consequences of her choices. I suspect she regrets them, like we all do. But she’ll make it work. That’s a choice, too.

In the meantime, let’s put away the pitchforks and torches and take a good hard look at why we take such glee in other people’s misfortune, self-induced or otherwise.

Then repeat after me: There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Two fewer...

Deep breaths.

That’s been my focus since about 12:15 this afternoon, when the surgeon’s office called to share that my surgery date has been moved up.

Two days.

To next Tuesday.

The Tuesday BEFORE next Thursday, the day I’ve been thinking about for a month.

Gulp.

So, I’m breathing…

There are, of course, pros and cons to this news. I will think only of the pros.

Two fewer days of liquid diet hell.

Two fewer days to worry about major surgery.

Two fewer days until I can have real food again.

Two fewer days to wait.

Two fewer days until the rest of my life.

Hunger pangs

Hunger.

It’s not the same as hungry.

Hungry is “Wow, listen to my stomach growl.” It’s “Man, I could eat a horse.” Or “I feel like I could gnaw off my arm.”

Hungry you can make jokes about. Hunger isn’t the least bit funny.

First, let’s be real. I haven’t had solid food in five days and I’ve definitely blown past hungry. But I’ve had three protein shakes a day, lots of fresh vegetables, even warm vegetable soup. I’m miles from hunger.

Still, I can say without any doubt that hunger is an agony none of us can, in our deepest, darkest moments, fathom. Because where I’ve been hanging out has been torture. And I’m not even close.

Hungry is grouchy and surly. It’s shaky and muddled thinking. It’s generally pissed off.

Hunger, I'm certain, is lonely. It’s hopeless. It’s thinking you’ll never be happy again.

Hungry is what Pooh would call a “rumbly in my tumbly.” Hunger is a pain that bites at the very core of your being.

Hungry gets better when something hits your stomach, even if it’s just warm broth. Hunger just gets angrier if what you put in your stomach won’t, in the long run, get you anywhere near sated.

Hungry is to hunger what possession of cannibis is to first-degree murder. It might be a gateway. More likely, it’s a wake-up call.

The first three days of this liquid diet were seriously rough. The third day, in fact, was deep and dark and hard to come back from. I began to question my reason for doing this; to wonder whether it’s really worth it. Intellectually, I know it is. But on the third day without food, I couldn’t see my way through.

Something happened, though, around noon on the fourth day. I seemed to turn a corner. I wasn’t sad anymore. I wasn’t ravenous. And for the first time in days, I could see the sun.

Church had just let out, and I suppose I could say God answered my prayers. More likely, though, it’s the cycle of hunger. When the body realizes that screaming bloody murder isn’t working, it lets up and regroups. The screaming will return at some point, of course. It has to. Self-preservation is a powerful instinct.

I’m hoping to fend it off as long as I can. I have just nine more days of this before surgery removes the glands that regulate “hungry.” After that, I won’t be able to eat as much. And I won’t give a damn.

Lucky me.

Not so much for the millions of people in this world — many, many of them children — who live with the hopeless, boundless pit of hunger day after day after day. Without protein shakes. Or warm soup. Or a corner to turn.

I lived for three days with an agonizing gnawing at my gut that nearly knocked me down. I can‘t imagine doing it for three months. Or three years. Or with three children.

Multiply three by 10 million and you’ll get the number of people on Earth who die from hunger each year. More than 925 million are under- or malnourished. In the United States, the richest country on the planet, 35.5 million people — 12.6 million of them children — skip meals, eat too little or go a whole day without food. One in 8 households is forced to choose between eating and paying for shelter and or medicine.

In a country that spends billions of dollars each year on new ways to kill people; that pays sports figures enough in a season to keep a small town afloat for a decade; that celebrates celebutantes and thugs and DJ Pauly D but not teachers; that wallows in fully 10 times the amount of stuff we need, it’s time we set our priorities straight.

In this day and age, with all of the resources of modern man, no one on this planet — not a parent, not a child — should have to live with hunger.

This pre-operative experience of mine — insignificant as it is in the grand scheme of things — has hit me broadside with a truth that was both foreign and abstract before now. In the words of my dear friend, DB, who has witnessed firsthand what most of us never will, we should be ashamed.

Liquidity

I am no longer full. I am, in fact, the opposite of full. I’m also the opposite of awake, alert and content.

I’ve been two days without solid food. In its place are things with no sugar, no fat, few carbs, relatively few calories and not much taste. Well, unless you count the taste that artificial sweeteners leave behind.

The vanilla protein shakes aren’t bad, which I didn’t expect. The chocolate ones are yucky, which I also didn’t expect. I have an equal number of each — and they each have 30g of protein in them, which is key — so finding something to make the chocolate ones more palatable has been paramount. Spirit Guide to the rescue. Throw in a few ice cubes, she says. I do, and, presto, tastes like a McDonald's chocolate shake!

Not really. But they are much better. Another friend suggested dropping in some banana extract, which totally works. Problem solved.

V8 and Chobani Greek yogurt are awesome. Tonight, warm tomato soup hit the spot. Before I go to bed I’ll have some hot tea and tell myself it's a Mexican combo and a couple of tequila shots. Should work like a charm.

Truth is, I’m hungry and my body is too pissed off to cut me any slack. Hell, wouldn’t you be? We went from all the enchiladas, tikka masala and salted caramel brownies we could handle to liquid cardboard with some raw veggies and non-fat yogurt thrown in for good measure. (Yesterday, I was so hungry after work that I stood over the counter inhaling baby carrots like they were potato chips. How far we’ve fallen.)

And I can’t remember the last time my stomach played such a symphony. The rumbling and gurgling has been so loud that it’s attracting the attention of passersby. Only one of them mentioned it. She’s my kid, so I gave her the stink-eye and the whole thing blew over.

There is, my friends, a silver lining. I haven’t had the wretched medicine in two days, and despite wanting to gnaw off my arm, I feel like a million dollars. After six years, no more nausea. You can’t imagine the joy.

Oh, and I’m two days closer to the rest of my life.

Yay me.