So, about those gunshots...
On May 24, 2005 I did a big thing. A big thing to make me small(er). I got Gastric bypass surgery. I've been thinking about it for at least 5 years. It might've been the ass-wiping that was the final straw, but really it had been building up for a while. I mean, I've been overweight (and I mean over.weight.) for a long time now and have just dealt with it. But this past year, it was just hard. I had trouble finding clothes for work. My legs started swelling. I had trouble breathing while laying down. For an almost 30 year old, that is just LAME. I mean, really. I should be in the best shape of my life, not competing with my Grandma for the store wheelchair (and, thank god, it never got to that).
So, I did it. At first, I wasn't going to tell anyone. And not because I cared what they thought, because I've followed my own path since I was a teenager (my Mom still recalls when she allowed me to redecorate my bedroom when I was 11 and I asked for furniture that I thought I would like when I moved into 'my own apartment.' My Mom deserves a medal for dealing with that shit.). I spend 97% of my life pretending I don't have a weight problem and 3% of my life hating-hating-hating every awkward moment that my weight problem has caused. So, to share with anyone that I was getting weight-loss surgery necessarily implies that I am in need of weight loss. (I know, I got an A in my Logic class in college.) Which, duh, I get that it's not like I can hide my fat like ya'll heroin addicts hide your trackmarks, but still.
Fortunately, when I told my parents and closest friends, they were all "yeah" and "yippee", so I didn't have to deal with the bullshit of some wanker trying to tell me what to do with my own life. My mom even volunteered to come spend the week with me during and after surgery.
So, on May 24, I went to the hospital at 0600 hours (when it's that early, you must use military time). I've never had so much as a broken bone before, so an operation was well beyond the scope of my medical experience, which made things just a little more nervewracking. I checked in, I got my bracelet and was escorted to a little curtained area. There they gave me gowns (a front and a back -- I mean no one needs to see more of my plentiful ass than necessary, right?) and footies and compression socks and a shower-cap thingy. They took my temperature and blood pressure and started an IV. Then, sooner than I thought, they walked me into the operating room. My first thought was, "this is smaller than the rooms on ER." And my second, "Don't I need to scrub in first?" Then the nurse was helping my onto the bed sans the 'back' gown (sorry 'bout that nurse, but listen, you took the job, not me). It felt like all of a sudden, everyone was moving really quickly, like ants on a new crumb of cheese. I guess it was the number of people all doing things at once. One nurse covering me in a warm blanket. One slipping my arm out the sleeve to attach some such sticky things for a beeping machine. Another asking me to spread my arms out to the side on the boards. Then the anesthesiologist putting a "just oxygen" mask on me. Which, I have to say, didn't really breathe like "just oxygen." He's saying, deep breaths, take deep breaths. So I do, even though I really feel like that stuff is hard to breath, and I realize this is the part in the story where I go night-night. And then I'm still there, deep breathing. He keeps repeating "deep breaths" and I AM already, and then I'm kind of panicking that the anesthesia isn't going to work on me--and I'm the only person in the world who is IMMUNE to anesthesia and omigod how are they going to do the surger...and I'm gone.
apparently, while I'm snoozing (and do you snore when you are under anesthesia? I don't think they've addressed that on ER. I would be ashamed, but those Doctors and Nurses saw things wildy worse than my snoring as they waded through layers of fat to reach vital organs, so I think snoring can't be that bad) they rewired some things. Removed a small piece of my stomach to serve as my new stomach, and reattached some intestines here and some there so that the whole network fit together again.
BAM! And I'm awake, like they had just turned on the "Jem" switch and whoop, there she was. And ow. I mean OW! OW! I think the first thing I said was "pain medication." Meanwhile, Sally McSmilyNurse is all, "Good Morning Sunshine and let's just move you onto this other bed and how about a new blanket and we're going to head right on up to your room now." Me, I'm still with the OW. And the shut. up. woman. and. give. me. the. drugs. And Sally Sadistic is all, "We're in the recovery room and if we give you medication here, you'll have to wait here another 1/2 hour before you can be moved, so let's go up to your room and then the nurse will get you something for the pain." I'm thinking, as much as is possible to think through the raw pain of waking up just after someone has scrambled your insides, I'm thinking, "Woman? If you think for a minute I give a shit WHERE I am when I get the pain medication, you are talking to the wrong Hilton sister. This one here, she--she just wants the drugs. In recovery, with a fox, in a box, here or there, she will take drugs ANYWHERE!" But, and this is where they really get you, right? You are weak. And in pain. And you are at their mercy. So when they want to move you to your room first, you are really in no position to argue, but certainly that did not prevent me from bitching the whole ride there. With a small side of dry heaving.
And we're in my room. My private room (which was awesome, but I couldn't care less about at the moment). And they help me scoot into my D-Lux hospital issue bed and plump the pillows and arrange the blankets and then everyone suddenly makes a bum rush for the door. My mom, who has trailed behind the travel team, is now the sole able-bodied person left in the room. And my mom, she doesn't have the drugs, so who really cares about what she is doing there. She starts chattering, "Ok, everything went great, the Doctor came and spoke to me. I'm going to start calling the folks you put on your list to receive calls." And proceeds to pull out her cell phone and a small piece of paper and begins to dial a number. I? Am OUTRAGED! "Hellooo?!? Over here? With the PAIN???" I mean what? I sputtered,"MOM. Shut the phone off NOW and GO FIND A NURSE. For THE DRUGS. NOW!" At this point, she is certain that all biblical references to demonic possession are true and is holding the phone mid-dial, trying to imagine how to respond to the spawn of Satan who has taken over her daughter's body. "Honey, I think it'll just take them a minute to get organized. Let's just wait a few minutes for them to come back in." A MINUTE? A FEW MINUTES? Are you freaking kidding me? Are you on crack? Do you have any more? As I start to froth at the month while blubbering about nurses and time and drugs, A nurse comes in with a bag of YUM. I mean Morphine. I'm still upset though. As she's plugging me into the bag (several, several minutes too late), I bark at her, "How long does this take to kick in??" And, she, obviously not sensing the demon within me nonchalantly replies, "About a half hour." WHAT? Is there no one in this hospital who knows ANYTHING about pain management? A half hour? I will be dead in a half hour, and gladly. Because I. AM. NOT. HAPPY. NOW. As I'm sputtering, she finishes hooking me up and leaves, like ignoring crazytalk is her job (and, it probably is, in hindsight). My mom, warily steps closer to the bed in hopes of scoring the bedside chair, but not the expense of a limb. Because she can see it is useless to try and talk with me now, she sits down and begins dialing the first number.
"Hi! It's me. Jem's out of surgery. Uh-huh, It went great. Well, she's in a little bit of pain now..."
"A LOT OF PAIN. A LOT. AND I HATE YOU."
"No, no, she s fine. I'm sure it'll be fine."
"I'M GLAD ONE OF US IS SURE, BECAUSE THE OTHER ONE, SHE IS FULL OF HATE!"
"Ok, well, I guess I should keep calling folks, so I'll talk to you later. Yes, I'll tell her. I'm sure she loves you too."
"NO, NO, I DON'T! I HA....."
And I'm out.
Why would the nurse say a half hour if the YUM only takes 5 minutes to kick in? Does she hate me? I don't know, but the YUM, it was good. When I next woke up, I could still tell my insides had been scrambled, but I didn't care nearly as much. And as long as the YUM kept coming (every two hours, and believe me, I timed it!), everything was great. My mom stayed the whole day, cabbing it back to her hotel in time for dinner.
Other than one small instance where the nurse took an extra HOUR to bring on the YUM, the night went well. Or, as well as can been expected when someone has opened 6 small holes in your abdomen, stuck a bunch of instruments through the holes and whing-whangled about your stomach and intestines. And the hospital, not so much like a spa. Or a Marriott, for that matter. I mean, hotels, they knock first..."Housekeeping...Housekeeping...can I get you another towel?" Hospitals, every hour it's something else. Take my temperature, get my blood pressure, check my compression socks, restock the YUM. And, every single blessed one of them needs the light on. The one right over my bed. It must be on. For them to see! Did the miners and tunnel workers not event the skullcap light for a reason people?? I mean, honestly!
Really, though, other than the constant interruptions, the night went really smoothly--a minimum of pain, and a lot of napping. The next morning was all about the jello and water (graduating from a part of a popsicle and ice chips). After a few measly bites, the doctor came in, declared me fit to leave and then we (Mom was back for round two) began the process of checking out. Which took about 4 hours, owing to the fact that the nurse ordered me the "big" wheelchair and apparently, in a hospital that does 982341293873746 bariatric surgeries a year, they only have ONE of those. Finally, we were able to wheel the hell out of there and I was whisked in a cab and it was back to the apartment.
Obviously, this is not where it ends, but it is my bedtime, so I'm going to save the rest for later. But, just so you don't get the wrong impression, let me wrap up my experience, Olympic Style:
Surgeon: 10/10
Hospital: 8/10
Nursing Staff: 7/10
Pain Management: 7/10
Overall Experience: 8/10
And, just so you know, I would do it ALL (even the PAIN) in a heartbeat. Thu-thump. A heart.beat.
So, I did it. At first, I wasn't going to tell anyone. And not because I cared what they thought, because I've followed my own path since I was a teenager (my Mom still recalls when she allowed me to redecorate my bedroom when I was 11 and I asked for furniture that I thought I would like when I moved into 'my own apartment.' My Mom deserves a medal for dealing with that shit.). I spend 97% of my life pretending I don't have a weight problem and 3% of my life hating-hating-hating every awkward moment that my weight problem has caused. So, to share with anyone that I was getting weight-loss surgery necessarily implies that I am in need of weight loss. (I know, I got an A in my Logic class in college.) Which, duh, I get that it's not like I can hide my fat like ya'll heroin addicts hide your trackmarks, but still.
Fortunately, when I told my parents and closest friends, they were all "yeah" and "yippee", so I didn't have to deal with the bullshit of some wanker trying to tell me what to do with my own life. My mom even volunteered to come spend the week with me during and after surgery.
So, on May 24, I went to the hospital at 0600 hours (when it's that early, you must use military time). I've never had so much as a broken bone before, so an operation was well beyond the scope of my medical experience, which made things just a little more nervewracking. I checked in, I got my bracelet and was escorted to a little curtained area. There they gave me gowns (a front and a back -- I mean no one needs to see more of my plentiful ass than necessary, right?) and footies and compression socks and a shower-cap thingy. They took my temperature and blood pressure and started an IV. Then, sooner than I thought, they walked me into the operating room. My first thought was, "this is smaller than the rooms on ER." And my second, "Don't I need to scrub in first?" Then the nurse was helping my onto the bed sans the 'back' gown (sorry 'bout that nurse, but listen, you took the job, not me). It felt like all of a sudden, everyone was moving really quickly, like ants on a new crumb of cheese. I guess it was the number of people all doing things at once. One nurse covering me in a warm blanket. One slipping my arm out the sleeve to attach some such sticky things for a beeping machine. Another asking me to spread my arms out to the side on the boards. Then the anesthesiologist putting a "just oxygen" mask on me. Which, I have to say, didn't really breathe like "just oxygen." He's saying, deep breaths, take deep breaths. So I do, even though I really feel like that stuff is hard to breath, and I realize this is the part in the story where I go night-night. And then I'm still there, deep breathing. He keeps repeating "deep breaths" and I AM already, and then I'm kind of panicking that the anesthesia isn't going to work on me--and I'm the only person in the world who is IMMUNE to anesthesia and omigod how are they going to do the surger...and I'm gone.
apparently, while I'm snoozing (and do you snore when you are under anesthesia? I don't think they've addressed that on ER. I would be ashamed, but those Doctors and Nurses saw things wildy worse than my snoring as they waded through layers of fat to reach vital organs, so I think snoring can't be that bad) they rewired some things. Removed a small piece of my stomach to serve as my new stomach, and reattached some intestines here and some there so that the whole network fit together again.
BAM! And I'm awake, like they had just turned on the "Jem" switch and whoop, there she was. And ow. I mean OW! OW! I think the first thing I said was "pain medication." Meanwhile, Sally McSmilyNurse is all, "Good Morning Sunshine and let's just move you onto this other bed and how about a new blanket and we're going to head right on up to your room now." Me, I'm still with the OW. And the shut. up. woman. and. give. me. the. drugs. And Sally Sadistic is all, "We're in the recovery room and if we give you medication here, you'll have to wait here another 1/2 hour before you can be moved, so let's go up to your room and then the nurse will get you something for the pain." I'm thinking, as much as is possible to think through the raw pain of waking up just after someone has scrambled your insides, I'm thinking, "Woman? If you think for a minute I give a shit WHERE I am when I get the pain medication, you are talking to the wrong Hilton sister. This one here, she--she just wants the drugs. In recovery, with a fox, in a box, here or there, she will take drugs ANYWHERE!" But, and this is where they really get you, right? You are weak. And in pain. And you are at their mercy. So when they want to move you to your room first, you are really in no position to argue, but certainly that did not prevent me from bitching the whole ride there. With a small side of dry heaving.
And we're in my room. My private room (which was awesome, but I couldn't care less about at the moment). And they help me scoot into my D-Lux hospital issue bed and plump the pillows and arrange the blankets and then everyone suddenly makes a bum rush for the door. My mom, who has trailed behind the travel team, is now the sole able-bodied person left in the room. And my mom, she doesn't have the drugs, so who really cares about what she is doing there. She starts chattering, "Ok, everything went great, the Doctor came and spoke to me. I'm going to start calling the folks you put on your list to receive calls." And proceeds to pull out her cell phone and a small piece of paper and begins to dial a number. I? Am OUTRAGED! "Hellooo?!? Over here? With the PAIN???" I mean what? I sputtered,"MOM. Shut the phone off NOW and GO FIND A NURSE. For THE DRUGS. NOW!" At this point, she is certain that all biblical references to demonic possession are true and is holding the phone mid-dial, trying to imagine how to respond to the spawn of Satan who has taken over her daughter's body. "Honey, I think it'll just take them a minute to get organized. Let's just wait a few minutes for them to come back in." A MINUTE? A FEW MINUTES? Are you freaking kidding me? Are you on crack? Do you have any more? As I start to froth at the month while blubbering about nurses and time and drugs, A nurse comes in with a bag of YUM. I mean Morphine. I'm still upset though. As she's plugging me into the bag (several, several minutes too late), I bark at her, "How long does this take to kick in??" And, she, obviously not sensing the demon within me nonchalantly replies, "About a half hour." WHAT? Is there no one in this hospital who knows ANYTHING about pain management? A half hour? I will be dead in a half hour, and gladly. Because I. AM. NOT. HAPPY. NOW. As I'm sputtering, she finishes hooking me up and leaves, like ignoring crazytalk is her job (and, it probably is, in hindsight). My mom, warily steps closer to the bed in hopes of scoring the bedside chair, but not the expense of a limb. Because she can see it is useless to try and talk with me now, she sits down and begins dialing the first number.
"Hi! It's me. Jem's out of surgery. Uh-huh, It went great. Well, she's in a little bit of pain now..."
"A LOT OF PAIN. A LOT. AND I HATE YOU."
"No, no, she s fine. I'm sure it'll be fine."
"I'M GLAD ONE OF US IS SURE, BECAUSE THE OTHER ONE, SHE IS FULL OF HATE!"
"Ok, well, I guess I should keep calling folks, so I'll talk to you later. Yes, I'll tell her. I'm sure she loves you too."
"NO, NO, I DON'T! I HA....."
And I'm out.
Why would the nurse say a half hour if the YUM only takes 5 minutes to kick in? Does she hate me? I don't know, but the YUM, it was good. When I next woke up, I could still tell my insides had been scrambled, but I didn't care nearly as much. And as long as the YUM kept coming (every two hours, and believe me, I timed it!), everything was great. My mom stayed the whole day, cabbing it back to her hotel in time for dinner.
Other than one small instance where the nurse took an extra HOUR to bring on the YUM, the night went well. Or, as well as can been expected when someone has opened 6 small holes in your abdomen, stuck a bunch of instruments through the holes and whing-whangled about your stomach and intestines. And the hospital, not so much like a spa. Or a Marriott, for that matter. I mean, hotels, they knock first..."Housekeeping...Housekeeping...can I get you another towel?" Hospitals, every hour it's something else. Take my temperature, get my blood pressure, check my compression socks, restock the YUM. And, every single blessed one of them needs the light on. The one right over my bed. It must be on. For them to see! Did the miners and tunnel workers not event the skullcap light for a reason people?? I mean, honestly!
Really, though, other than the constant interruptions, the night went really smoothly--a minimum of pain, and a lot of napping. The next morning was all about the jello and water (graduating from a part of a popsicle and ice chips). After a few measly bites, the doctor came in, declared me fit to leave and then we (Mom was back for round two) began the process of checking out. Which took about 4 hours, owing to the fact that the nurse ordered me the "big" wheelchair and apparently, in a hospital that does 982341293873746 bariatric surgeries a year, they only have ONE of those. Finally, we were able to wheel the hell out of there and I was whisked in a cab and it was back to the apartment.
Obviously, this is not where it ends, but it is my bedtime, so I'm going to save the rest for later. But, just so you don't get the wrong impression, let me wrap up my experience, Olympic Style:
Surgeon: 10/10
Hospital: 8/10
Nursing Staff: 7/10
Pain Management: 7/10
Overall Experience: 8/10
And, just so you know, I would do it ALL (even the PAIN) in a heartbeat. Thu-thump. A heart.beat.
posted by Jaime at
9:05 PM
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