Hamstar
I’ve wanted the surgery since 2004. I had problems with my insurance, I was turned down. I had high hopes of somehow things magically falling into place… but I misplaced my pixie dust, and the notion of getting the surgery faded into the background.
One Month Post Op!
Has it really been a month? Well yes, I suppose it has! Here’s how my recovery went…
The first week home I was doing pretty alright. I quit taking that Vicodin because it made me tired, dizzy, and nauseous. I found that the liquid gold A++ pain killer of choice was Liquid Tylenol (adult).
I still seemed to sleep a lot. But I think that was my body trying to repair itself. The biggest pain was that tube sticking out of me. It seemed that sucker would bind up in a heartbeat. It hurt every time it would happen.
When the doctor pulled it out, it didn’t hurt so much as felt so weird having this thing come out, the hose raking organs on it’s way out. An experience that was horrible… but I never want to repeat again.
About Wednesday (day 5 home) I made up my mind that I could go back to work 5 weeks early. I saw my doctor, she approved & wrote me a note. Good to go. When I showed up to the office Friday to tell my boss I would return the next day… I think he almost shat a kitten out.
Quite a bit of people were shocked to see me return to the office a week Post Op. But the pain was totally manageable at this point. This was not a tough man thing, I don’t subscribe to that nonsense. My surgeon did such an awesome job, I could actually return to work way early.
The first night back to work, I questioned if I was being a bit too hasty. It was a very long 12 hour shift. But the night passed. The next day was another 12 hour shift, and it didn’t go too terrible.
Everything with my WLS has been like clockwork. My doctor said I could even break protocol a bit and have puree’s a few days early! This was a two edged sword.
The first day on puree, I bought some of the chili that everyone suggested. Neatos! I also bought cottage cheese. Too much cottage cheese… and I couldn’t put jalapenos in it because I’m still on mushness. BUT IT’S NOT SOUP!
I had bought a Magic Bullet Blender thinking how absativly perfect it would be! I put the chili in the blender and it made this poo looking pasty gruel. Not much to look at, but hey… it’s not soup right?
I put it in a little custard dish (weighed out), whip out my bright pink baby spoon… plop down in front of the boob tube for some X-Play goodness… 20 minutes later, the chili is gone.
Five minutes later I’m almost in a ball on the floor begging God for the sweet merciful release of death.
For the next 45 minutes I’m just dying. I was not loving life! What happened?! I followed everything to the letter! I’m anal retentive that way! I don’t get it?! What went wrong?
The next meal I was unsure. I had soup & pondered. What do I do? How do I eat? There has to be an answer.
After shooting all the data through the intellectual prism, my brainmeats crapped out a rainbow of logic. Mastication… or lack thereof. I rushed it, didn’t take into account a lot of factors.
I decided to test theory on my first day of puree.
I made some Italian cracked lemon breast & herb chicken. It went down just fine. My next meal I made one of my diabetic num nums, I call it cracker pizza.
I tried puree chili again just to see, and the result was the same, icky pain. My next meal I tried the chili whole, no pain. That chili was from the same jar. As I like to keep secrets, I called my doc for some confessional booth time.
I’ve been on solids since. I have had my good meals, as well as my bad. Some foods that sit really well on the first pass, don’t seem to sit as well on the second. It’s really been sporadic.
One constant for me is size.
I measure out my meals every time. But 4 ounces seems a bit much for me when it comes to solids. I’ve cut it back to 2-3 ounces (depending on meal). I also found that if I mix in a bit of liquid with my meals they seem to settle better (less gas).
I know it’s against the rules to drink with your meal, but I compensate the liquid for the solids and it works out much better. When I eat a meal without the liquid, I tend to get sick.
A few days after it’s launch, I bought Wii Fit. I didn’t put the little carpet feetsies on it, so it misread my weight (by a considerable amount). A couple of weeks later, and now I’m a little below the mark it originally said I was at.
It’s weird how my personality is changing as my body changes.
I have never been a workout guy. I was told I should go running… get that “Runners High”, but I must have gotten my hands on some bad stuff… because the first time I tried running I was on all 4’s taking in giant gulps of air, heart pounding almost out of my chest, and ready to throw up. Proving getting high is a bad thing all the way around.
Usually I park right next to the place I’m going. I don’t walk. My friends used to joke that my paraplegic friend did more walking than me. I would cite “that’s why God makes cars”.
I actually went for a 2 hour walk downtown
I’ve actually been doing a lot more things now.
I actually went out and bought a bike WITH NO ENGINE! Dead serious! There’s a completely frozen over section in Dante’s Ez-Bake right now! I got my Schwinn on!
Now that the weight restriction is off, I’ve pulled my truck out of the garage and started working on mods again. I’ve started out this week with a weird request for a Russian Guitar.
I’m looking forward to getting back on the Truck Project, but I think it’s still a bit early to be doing all the heavy lifting, so I’ll stick with video game consoles and controllers for a bit longer.
With so much happening so quickly… I sitting with wide eyed fascination of where I’ll be next month! Where will I be in 2? What will it be like to wear normal people cloths??!
Well that’s my one month Surgaversary!
My cloths are fitting a bit more loose now that I’ve lost 45lbs. Here’s a side by side with my before, and me at one month.
Maybe I should have worn that grey shirt again… but you get the drift.
The fun fact is that I let it slide. Hindsight being 20/20, I don’t think I was really that committed. I wanted the surgery. I wanted to make it happen. I don’t think I accepted the changes & was ready to make the commitment. I could still have all the things I loved… just less. I think fate stepped in knowing that I would “eat around” the surgery, and be back to the same place I am right now. I needed a slap around.
Diagnosed with Diabetes to add to my list. Now the diet that I thought I could commit to was suddenly thrust in my face. I was scared. I thought my life was over. In essence, it was.
I’m a big guy. With the big frame comes boldness. I’m not afraid of much. Not macho nonsense, just the big fish usually doesn’t pay mind to the threats of the little… except when it’s a little needle.
I’m terrified of needles! Diabetic? Oh no no no no NO! Uh uh! Not me! No way! They don’t make a firearm big enough to threaten Mr. Eric with taking a shot. Nope, not happening. To better paint this picture, please see the word NO in the dictionary.
Fear is a superb motivator isn’t it? It is for me. I was given the opportunity to get my diabetes under control by Jan 6th. There was a course I could take with a nutritionist to do it… the catch 22 is that my first class was on Jan 6th.
So now I know I can follow thru with the diet, because other than portion size… I’m already on it.
I’ve learned so much via diabetes. Lessons that I think I needed. Now I think I’m prepared. Before I was ready. Like a child who’s ready to be grown up. They want the grown up, without the growing up, or the hassles of being grown up. I wanted the surgery not thinking, truly thinking that I would have to change. I kept seeing images of portion size.
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So I started the process again. I attended a class, I called my insurance company. I was turned down. I got an advocate, fought the insurance company, & was turned down again. I called my company trying to get reason, and was told they just don’t cover it.
Then the ignorance of the woman over our insurance shined thru.
When asked about the company getting the surgery, she told me to go “running and skipping”. Later she would explain that her husband says WLS is the “easy way out” so she made sure to eliminate it from the company policy. I was truly mad. Her discrimination gave me that last little bit of go-go juice I needed to be top carnivore.
Apparently you can’t just “cancel” your health insurance with my company. Not without an amazing reason. I had folks try to talk me into suing my company. One went so far as to talk to an attorney on my behalf. Apparently this lawyer says she would take my case and basically get her cash on the backswing.
How much did she tell him? Well after court costs & fees, & her fees AND the surgery… I was looking at easily turning a couple hundred thousand dollars profit. Yeah… all I had to do was sell my soul, and sentence another to damnation. No way, that’s not me…
Instead of going down the dark path, I brainstormed another way.
I canceled my health insurance with my company on the grounds of discrimination. I made them very aware of my legal rights, as well as what that attorney said.
I told them what I could do, but rather than make a big stink, let me cancel my health insurance. I don’t want to sue anyone; I just want to have the tools I need to reclaim my health.
They allowed it.
I then applied for health insurance with another company & was promptly turned down due to my diabetes.
With the letter of denial, I then applied for health insurance with a state funded company. There was going to be an automatic denial based off of having canceled my health insurance within the last 90 days. I gave them my reason for cancelation, & provided proof of discrimination. With my denial letter and my discrimination proof, I was then approved (although at a rate double of my company insurance).
So now I have all the tools I need… soul intact.
Well the last few days have most certainly been interesting. Right now I am under the influence of vicodin, which apparently makes me loopy. Just a warning.
The whole car ride to the hospital my fears became more vocal, but so did my excitement. The last few minutes of the car ride were in silence so I focused on what was playing at the time to take my mind from what was going on.
The song playing was Last Request by Paolo Nutini.
The now fresh in my head song was on repeat. Every time I thought of how hungry & thirsty I was, I’d be back to singing that song in my head. I didn’t get long to start singing. I showed up to the hospital 45 minutes before my scheduled check in, and they put me in right away.
Sitting in pre-op they have you strip down and then they start to tally what’s on you as it goes in a bag. Cloths in the cloths only bag, and personal possessions in various ziplocks. They documented everything down to my pen.
Then I was left in the little room wearing nothing but a hospital gown and these funky slipper sock things. I need to empty my bowels, at this point that notion was creepy. You see the night before I had to drink what I call “Gravy cannon ammo”
The stuff that’s coming out of me isn’t poop, it’s a thick yellow liquid. Very gross. Very weird.
Jen and I are the reunited. We go to the pre-surgery room. There they start sticking me with an IV, and put these boot socks on my legs. I’m starting to feel like Tony Stark. Stuff on my arms, legs hands… they measured my neck?
Now I’m on the bed waiting. I have a full on view of the clock. 13:00 I’m going in. I watched the time come up to, and then pass 13:00, no doc. They inform us he’s going to be late. It was kind of a relief actually. When he arrived, I was pretty calm.
I kiss Jen goodbye, and now I’m laying on the table going down the hall. I’m singing that song, just the cadence, and into the operating room. They explain how I’m on a hover pad as they glide me out of the bed onto the table.
Looking around, I quickly realize that operating rooms on TV & in the movies look NOTHING like the real deal! There were so many people there! Screens all over the place, people doing things with odd devices. I didn’t get to look much.
“Slow down, lie down…” the song goes in my head as this face enters view, “here we go” he says “…grant my last request and let me hold you, don’t shrug your shoulders, lay down beside me…”
I wake up in a room my body a cacophony of pain and my mouth so dry… I see a guy, I ask him for some pain killers. He ignores me. I wave my arms and at this point I’m begging for ice chips to curb the dry mouth. He forces my arms down without a word and ignores me. Note: that guy was the only real negative experience I had with the hospital staff.
Next thing I’m in a room. I know the number, how I came about this information is beyond me. When I’m asked where I am, I say “room 301” to a surprised nurse. I’m in pain and so thirsty. Something cold in my mouth. People blink into view and are gone again. Fragments of conversations. Mouth so try my tongue feels like a foreign object in my mouth.
Things eventually leveled out and I began to retain consciousness although the way I was hurting, I really didn’t want to. Per Jen, they got me back in the room around 6 or 6:30 PM.
I had followed my doctors diet to the letter. For two months I had drank the sewer water stuff and did all my vitamins. The week of the pre-op diet was hell, but I didn’t cheat, not even once.
My reward was a perfect surgery. My doctor said everything in there was great! It was a good feeling to get validation. Usually I don’t need it, but in this case, it was very welcome to have.
My pain level was very high the first day. Morphine doesn’t work on me, but I didn’t want to complain. So I just laid there and bore it. I forced myself to stand for the first time at 10pm.
They would ask me my pain level and I would say 6, when it was really a 9. It wasn’t until the next shift when this hardcore nurse offered me vicodin did my tune change.
She explained it’s not about taking the pain, it’s about dropping it down so I could move around. The only way to heal is to be active. I let her give me the vicodin, and fessed up that morphine isn’t doing anything.
They tried this stuff called dilodnin. I don’t know how to spell this stuff.
So after my first dose of dilodin, they took me down for a leak test. Its hitting me like a ton of bricks. They’re pushing me in the wheelchair and I’m feeling the breeze, I thought I was on a boat for a little while.
This is where my story, and the story I’ve heard from others has shifted.
They park my wheelchair in a hall. My friend Liz asks me what my pain level is and I reply “In the hallway”. Apparently I looked at her like she was an idiot. They wheeled me to an xray room, I had to stand and drink contrast while they xrayed for leaks. Then they wheeled me back to my room.
Now what I remember is that I was on a fast moving boat. I was tortured, and forced to drink sugar acid, and then back on the boat before the government found out.
So needless to say, dilodin, nope. We can’t take that. They now are trying trodidol. I’m not loopy. Mixed with vicodin, I’m well below a 3 on the pain chart. I’m walking, all good.
Bear in mind that the pain isn’t from the incisions. It’s from the gas. They filled me full of gas & pumped me up. That gas is resting against incisions. It’s supposed to go up in a burp, but cant because now that place is blocked. It doesn’t want to go down. Gas rises.
My stomach and intentional track are full of it. Until I get rid of it, I’m going to be a hurting unit. Pain for the actual incisions, not even a 1. I didn’t even realize they were there.
But they were. Want to see?
Here is what I look like in the belly
That tube you see with the bulb at the end. That catches blood and nastiness. The little bulb acts as a catcher and a suction cup. If you want to look under the bandage to see how it goes in…
That black line is the sewing material used to sew it to my skin. When this joker moves, it pinches that skin… oh, that’s an interesting experience.
While laying in bed, I had these things on my legs that had air going in them. This was to prevent clots in conjunction with several injections in the stomach.
Every hour a nurse was in to check my vitals. Every time I wanted to stand they had to unhook my legs. I would stand for a bit. Lay back down. They would have the student nurses hook my legs back up.
These things go rather high up and I’m quite naked under the gown. This one really young nurse started to hook my legs back up when she got to the upper thigh and hesitated. She was looking at my stuff. I blurt out “OH MY GOD PENIS!” and she lets out a little "eep!" while snatching the gown down. Her face bright red... a flood of apologies started right after.
I was already telling her not to sweat it. I’ve never been the timid type, and at this point, I think the list of people in the hospital who hadn’t seen it was shorter. It was her first week… at least now she has a story for later. :D
Once the catheter came out, I started walking. Still nothing on the gas coming out, but at least I was moving about.
Walking around, I have to wear this gut doohickey. It’s like a girdle I think. It helps hold my guts into place. I think it’s just because my moobs were just to jiggly.
The next day was my best day. I walked several times, and I felt a ton better.
Friday was pretty good, until I was discharged. The ride home was a living hell. I felt every bump, every brake.
The cat is used to sleeping on my belly when I’m on the sofa, and she kept trying to assume her spot. Jen ended up making a pillow array on the bed to lean against. She’s the queen of pillows!
I can’t say enough how awesome she was this whole time! Cept she wouldn’t wipe my butt. I tried to talk her into it, but she said no. Guess it’s not to love, honor, & wipe the hiney.
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Thru sheer fear of the needle, I tore thru the internet like a screaming banshee from hell… I think I left scorch marks on Google. Come January 6th, I handed my doc the pills he gave me and they did the test. Type 2 controlled, no meds, all diet. I lost 60lbs, and there was no needle to be had.
In December of 2006 I got my slap.
I started to go blind. It was happening so slowly, I didn’t even notice, but I knew I needed to get an eye exam. I didn’t know the severity of it, or root cause. It wasn’t until I detected a weird odor in my urine did I freakishly have my blood sugar tested… I should have been in a coma.
This Sunday I’m going to try to ride a roller coaster for the first time in years! Last time I went to Valley Fair, all I could ride was the “Teacups” because I was too ungodly fat to fit in the actual roller coasters. So excited!
The bill for the actual cutting came in. This is not the atheistic, or any of that, this is just the OR. $25,118.92. My insurance (Medica) covered $23,818.06 of that, so I am left with a bill of $1,300.86. A bill I’m glad to pay.
The goodies, I know some of you want to see pics…
OH MY!
Too hawt to contain!
Somehow we’ll try to move on! This is the current shot of me not showing off my amazing hiney!
Slowly but surely I’m getting there!
Foods are starting to become problematic. Initially I could/would make something I wanted, just watch the portion size and try to shoot for a protein count that looks more like a zipcode.
Sadly, intolerance to certain foods has begun.
I’ve learned that pork is no longer my friend. No matter how lean, no matter how expensive the cut of meat, no matter if it’s just baked without a single dash of seasoning.
I joke that I’ve had Leviticus (11: 7-8) thrust on me! Yeah, I’m completely shunning Deuteronomy 14:8… I’m punky that way. Isaiah understands.
So no piggies on my plate. It’s a sad day for the rows and rows of little sugar free applesauce tubs that sit in my cupboard collecting dust. /emo tear
I’ve had a couple of other sadities… I think I’ve mentioned at one point that I can’t have Mongolian BBQ anymore. That was a hard hit to take. That’s my favorite food on this planet.
It’s strange… when I mention all the nummy food that I can’t ever have again… I’m asked if I regret it, and I can’t find even the teeniest, tinest of give a dammn at the bottom of the proverbial barrel.
Yes, the only food that I’ve ever considered myself good at preparing I can never have again. Sure, I loved it. So? It’s only food!
I pose the question to many of them “ever have a seizure?”, “are you diabetic?”
I had a friend of mine say that she wouldn’t make the tradeoff. Tradeoff? I kinda looked at her doing that head tilt thing like a dog when you change the food on them… HUH!?
It’s weird where people focus their priorities.
So far I’ve dropped some serious pant sizes! I’m already below a 40. I’m not sure what size I am because I can’t afford to keep buying cloths. I’m down 8 pants sizes for sure, and ½ shoe size.
I’m having an issue with the area under my deflating chubby roll. It’s getting itchy. I take more showers to make sure that the area is clean, but it’s a heat or yeast rash that keeps developing.
So I go to the store to buy some Vagisil. It makes sense to me… it’s for heat and yeast rashes right?
Checking out at the register 10 items or less, the dude at the register had the maturity level of a 5 year old. He said “Don’t women piss you off when they make you buy their shit?” getting an approving “mmhmm” from the guy behind me.
I loved the look on the guys face when I said “The cooch cream is for me bud” and proceeded to hold up my shirt and flabbin chubby roll going “see”
It’s funny how quickly he turned red, and his witness behind me looked the other way like there was something more interesting behind him.
Hehe I’m such an awesome people person, he just didn’t want to admit it.
Past the struggle with finding food that my pouch enjoys, I’m pretty happy about everything!
I’ve learned to take test nibbles on food. I still refer to them as bites although Jen calls it tasting. I’ll take a bite or two, and wait a few minutes to see what the reaction is. If it’s bad, then forks down, I’m done.
I’ve found that cold works out very well in the event of rejection. I’ll have a couple of popsicles, call that lunch and move on.
It’s weird how my outlook towards food has changed. I try to make smaller portions, but it’s hard to make 4 ounce meals and not have a ton of leftovers.
I used to weigh them out in the little 4 ounce ziplock jobber-do’s, but I like a diverse meal selection. After a while, my freezer is full of these little containers of whatnot, and God help you figure out what’s in each of them.
Case in point. I had a craving for some Baghaara Sowa Raita over aromatic rice. The smallest amount of this I know how to make still yields like 3 cups. Raita’s don’t keep worth a flip.
Freezing a Raita make it separate when thawed, it never blends back the same, and will always reintegrate grainy. It’s a stinky end to such a tasty dish.
Then I try to get my Indy kick with Kesar Pulao and I end up with a ton of leftovers. I don’t know about you, but I like Indian every now and then… one batch I think would last me a year.
So then I think to maybe buy an upright freezer. But then the pork intolerance surfaced. What would I do with 10 little containers of Yangchow Fried Rice had I have stowed them?
It’s an interesting dilemma. One I never pictured having.
I can’t help but smile at the little drama pellets like this that have dinged off my noggin. Concerns I’ve never fathomed. I don’t know why it amuses me so much.
Today Jen and I went out to eat at the Noodle Company with some friends. She orders mac n cheese and a salad. I order one of the 15 calorie lemonades.
We sit there talking and having a good time, and I’m picking noodles one at a time from Jens plate with a pair of chopsticks. I eat a total of 12 noodles (yeah, I count them), and I drink about ½ ounce of the lemonade. I’m done.
Sure the macaroni was amazing, but I didn’t want to really eat it as a meal because of the lack of protein. Who would have thought? I’m so used to eating for taste, and here I am eating for nutrition. Weird stuff.
