The Day of Surgery (Part One)

It is a shame that I didn't write this up right after I got home from the hospital so all of the details would be fresh, but I just couldn't. Honestly, I tried – but writing, hell concentrating on anything, became really taxing for me for a while. Regardless, I will try my best to recollect what happened in as much detail as I can manage. I have decided to split this into two separate entries because, frankly, they will be pretty long. I hope you can find some insight, some familiarity, or at least some comfort in my experience.

I woke up to the sound of the cellphone alarm (the worst sound in the world) around 4:30 a.m. My husband roused me enough to get me up and in the shower, then he rolled back over for a few more minutes of rest. I lazily climbed into the shower and gently scrubbed myself down from head to toe with this stuff called Hybiclens. I had washed my hair the night before and washed with the Hybiclens then, as well. I had slept on freshly washed sheets, rolled up as tightly as possible in my top sheet so that my dog couldn't burrow her way under the sheet to cuddle with me as she usually does (fail, by the way).

 As I washed, my stomach began to churn violently. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since midnight, as instructed, but that wasn't why my stomach was upset. I was terrified. I felt cold and alone. I continued to scrub – washing with Hybiclens is weird; it doesn't foam up like a normal soap. It feels heavy and has an odd smell. As I began to rinse I started to sob. My husband, who had been half-awake anyway, immediately came to the bathroom and did his best to comfort me. I continued to sob but I soldiered on. At some point while I was blotting myself dry with our one clean towel I decided not to cry anymore. I decided that if this was my last few hours alive, and the last bit of time I would spend with my husband, it wouldn't be spent crying.

 I got dressed mechanically, concentrating on each small task and trying my hardest to think of nothing else. The fear was there, sitting heavily on my shoulders. Instead of trying to shake it off I just accepted it and moved on. It did not go away. We left around 5:15 a.m., in the dark, and for once there was no traffic in the city.

The ride to the hospital was almost surreal. I had never seen the streets of my city so deserted. I watched the time carefully – I needed to take my nausea medication with a “tiny sip of water” at exactly 5:30. We sat in silence as he drove. I had the window down a little and listened dreamily to the dawn chorus of the first birds of the morning when we sat at stoplights. I recognized the songs of blackbirds and robins from my time interning at the wild bird hospital not far from our destination. I wished that I was going there instead of the hospital. The blackbirds reminded me of The Beatles song, and I quietly hummed the beginning stanza.


The radio was turned down very low, but it was so quiet that I could barely hear a song playing in those silent moments. I recognized the tune but it wasn't quite loud enough for me to place it. Knowing my husband it was probably Metallica or some 90’s rock band. I was freezing cold; I wasn't sure if it was because my hair was still damp, or if it was the fear chilling me. I stared intently at the clock, thumbing the reinforced paper pill packet in the palm of my hand as I waited.

When the digital clock in the truck dashboard changed to 5:30 I grabbed my half-empty bottle of water that I had set carefully by the door the night before, and opened my pill packet. The pill had cost us $80; it was the same drug that they prescribed to people undergoing chemotherapy. I took a moment to stare at this apparent miracle drug and then took it dutifully – with a tiny sip. I offered the rest of the water to my husband who took it with thanks and downed it in one gulp.


I looked him over, slowly as he drove, and realized that he was also afraid. He was awkward, quiet, and uncomfortable. I kept staring at him – he was so handsome. Hair disheveled, shirt and slacks from the day before hastily pulled on, hands gripping the steering wheel with a little too much force. He felt my gaze and glanced at me. He smiled calmly and said, “I love you”, then made some comment on the lack of traffic. I forced a smile back and the tension eased a little as we conversed about the ungodly time we had to get out, if we were going to make it on time, and whether or not my room would have a view of the ocean (the hospital is situated very close to the beaches). It took us almost 30 minutes to arrive, but we got there and found parking (unsurprisingly because of the time) very near the entrance.

We sat in the truck for a few minutes as I fought an impending panic attack. I took slow, deep breaths and stared at the seemingly deserted entrance. The yellowish-white light from the inside of the lobby beckoned to us. I swallowed hard and got out of the truck, straightening my clothes and collecting myself. My husband grabbed my overnight bag and triple-checked his wallet to make sure he had my ID and insurance card. We walked together, every step feeling like I was walking to my own death.


We stepped into the lobby and an elderly security officer appeared out of seemingly nowhere. He called me by name and then asked me to have a seat in one of two admittance offices. My husband and I entered the small office. He let me sit in the over-sized chair and he leaned on the door. A young, smiling woman sat opposite me behind her desk and asked me a series of questions about who I was, what I was there for, and how I was doing. She collected and returned my ID and insurance card; and collected (but did not return) my $250 co-pay. It was painful to hand over; I knew we would be tight on money for the next couple of weeks, but I also knew that it was necessary. Something about her made me feel at ease. She was familiar to me; her style of dress, her attitude, her smile – she reminded me of a very close friend I had in my hometown. She was done with me fairly quickly and I was sent away, down the very long and sterile hall, towards the day surgery/surgery prep area. The hall was deserted and our footsteps echoed eerily as the elderly officer escorted us to the area.

To be continued...

Update - with face pic + Notes on depression

First, a few quick updates on how things are going. I seem to be recovering very slowly. I have regressed a little as far as exercise goes, but I think that is mainly due to the way I have been feeling, but I also blame the god-awful humid Florida “Spring”. I am sick almost all of the time. I am dizzy every time I stand up or bend over. I have not been getting the nutrients or the water that I need and that is mainly because there is simply not enough room in me for it all. Ideally, I should have a 2 oz. breakfast, a protein shake, a 4 oz. lunch, a protein shake, and a 4 oz. dinner. I usually get in about 6 oz. a day total and I never get a protein shake in at all. The nausea after I eat is so overwhelming that I sometimes throw a portion of what I eat right back up. Also, I should be drinking plenty of water and taking my medications between all of this. There is no way. I often miss medications because of nausea. Every time I eat or drink I feel nauseated. It is discouraging and scary, but I trust that it is a phase that will pass eventually.

I can say with some degree of certainty that I have lost some weight. I cannot guess how much exactly since I still do not have a functioning scale, but I can wear an actual pair of jeans now. Also, more clothes that didn't fit before do now and it is a pretty great feeling. I will get to weigh in at my next doctor’s appointment, which is in one week. I am afraid that I will not have lost very much because I am fairly sure that my body has entered “starvation mode.” Many people in my online support group have upped their calories and been able to break weight-loss stalls.

I have noticed so many issues that I have to deal with somehow. I have to get over my self-hatred. Even after a 76 pound (at last weigh-in) loss I still look in the mirror when I am doing my make-up and literally feel like I am putting make-up on a pig. Now that there is less fat on my face I can see some of my features and I hate them all. My nose, my chin, my eyes, my general facial structure; I hate it all. I will never look the way that I want to look. I will never feel beautiful. I have posted progress pictures on my Facebook page and have gotten many positive responses – people telling me that I am looking good and that I look beautiful. For a moment it makes me feel good about myself, and then I am ashamed. I decide that they are only saying these things because they are nice people – that they are lies. It is insane. Depression is killing me. I thought that after surgery everything would be okay – it’s not. If anything it has highlighted my issues for me.

This brings me to my main point for this post – my after-school special, “the more you know” main point. Weight-loss is not a cure for depression. And actually, it goes way beyond weight-loss. I know that I have a few people that I care about that read this blog (thank you), and I want to stress this point to them specifically. If you are having issues, deal with them now before they become too much to handle. I am still not sure whether or not I can actually deal with all of this – I hope so, but I don’t know. Before I had this surgery I fought the depression really hard. I had a counselor that I was seeing (that I have stopped seeing because basically he sucked), I had medication...I fought hard but I felt like it was all for naught if I didn't lose weight. I thought the surgery was my only hope to lose the amount of weight that I needed to lose (I still stand by that). But I also thought that post-op all of this would just, I don’t know, melt away like the fat. As if the depression were stored in the fat cells and would go away as I lost weight; it hasn't and it won’t. The physical stress on my body right now has made my depression worse, in a way.

An example:
My mother died a few years ago. She had multiple organ failures and I watched her slowly decay away; a woman who loved life and laughed so much. One of the ways that I was told I would know that her “time was near” was her appetite. Her birthday was in February and I brought her her absolute favorite pie in the hospital. She ate a good, healthy slice of it. By Mother’s Day, when I brought her another, she had one small bite which she visibly did not enjoy. She tried to pretend that she enjoyed it for my sake. She died on May 19th, about a week later.

I feel this way. I don’t want to eat. Food mostly doesn't taste great to me. I suffer when I do eat. I keep wondering – is this my time? Is it getting close? Is that what this means? Should I just stop trying and save myself the pain? I ask myself these questions every day. I know that the reason these questions come up is likely very acute depression. I do not think this surgery will kill me, but I often wonder if the depression will – and that has always been a danger for me. No matter how fat or skinny I am, as long as this dragon that is depression is breathing down my neck I will always be in danger. And finally, that is my point – if you are battling your own dragon, slay it and try to get on with life. Stop ignoring it, stop pushing it aside, stop hoping that it will go away when things get better because as long as the depression is there things won’t get better. Sure, you may manage to get a promotion, find a girl/guy friend, or lose or gain weight but you’ll still feel like shit. And think of how much easier achieving those goals, whatever they are, will be without depression sludging up your brain.

The pic on the left is me at my highest weight (601);
the pic on the right is about a week ago. 

Post-op Appointment (525)

I am long overdue for an update, so I apologize. Obviously, I survived my surgery. It occurred, as planned, on March 23^rd. I had my 2 week post-op check-up today and found that I have lost a little more weight. It was not as much as I had hoped, but it was a loss nonetheless. The past couple of weeks have been HARD. No food, just liquids. I was trying to “eat” about a ½ cup of soup a meal, but I find that I am really sick afterwards so I have reduced it down to 1/3 of a cup per meal. I have about a week until I can have pureed foods and I cannot WAIT. I have had a few slip-ups along the way. Yesterday’s was the worst. I had some ham (it was Honeybaked!!!!) at my mom-in-law’s for Easter. I snuck it little by little and it made me very sick. Otherwise I have melted a bit of cheese in my soup a few times. I don’t think that this is a huge deal.

The surgery itself went great. My surgeon fixed my hernia (which she gave me photos of today for some weird nasty reason). I was taken from recovery to ICU for care because my oxygen levels were low. I recovered quickly and went home the day after. I quickly got off of my pain meds and was relieved to get my On-Q pump pulled out by my mom-in-law a few days after surgery. There will be more on all of this in a later post.

As for now I just wanted to let everyone (all two of you that read!) that I am okay and am just about fully recovered. Today I feel like this song: