In July, of 2001, I was scheduled for my gastric bypass surgery. I had just lost around 40 lbs. and to say that I was optimistic about what the future would hold would be an understatement. I was also increasingly scared as the days drew near. I recall one evening at a friend's house, we had just finished dinner and I my friend S was expressing concern over what I was about to do. While I was assuring her that all would be well and this was the best move for me, every emotion started coming out. I started to cry. Everything that had come to this point was bubbling up, and out, and I started to spill my guts as to what had brought me to such an extreme measure. (Note to self: Spilling My Gut, not a bad book title)What I told her was, I was tired of people feeling worried about me. My mother had just lost my father. She didn't need to worry about losing her son. My father never got to see me truly happy. In his fast decline and the years prior, he watched me grow fatter and fatter. He saw my quality of life deteriorate and that must have been hard to watch. His life was cut short at 63 and I got to thinking about how little time we have. I was tired of people feeling sorry for me. I was just plain tired.
I dried my eyes and apologized for the scene, but it felt good to vocalize all that I had been feeling. I was more ready now to face the scary proposition of my first-ever surgery. I thanked her for a nice meal, as always, then said goodbye to my 'adopted' second family and went home to be alone with my thoughts.
When doing a procedure on someone as large as myself, they worry about clotting. If a blood clot goes to your lungs, heart or brain, it can be fatal. So what they do is install something called a Greenfield Filter, or inferior vena cava filter (I prefer the term Greenfield Filter, as only the best will do in my vena cava.). This device resembles a tiny umbrella, minus the fabric and is inserted in through either your groin or neck. It then settles in somewhere down the line to catch any clots that might occur. They then disolve, over time. Myself, being very uncomfortable about anyone fishing something into me via my groin, insisted on the neck. This procedure was to be done a few days before my surgery as an outpatient procedure. I would then stay at my sister's, overnight, in case I had some adverse affect from the anesthesia.
A good friend called Mom to see how things went for me. Now, Mom has never been one to get the facts right. Mom, I love you, but you would be a great fiction writer, although I am sure you would see your books on non-fiction shelves of the Barnes and Noble. Anyway, I digress. Mom tells my friend, that I broke the table and fell off during the ordeal. When my friend told me this after, I was appalled. The whole bypass thing was embarrassing enough to me without Mom telling people that my fat ass broke a metal table at Morristown Memorial and then I rolled onto the floor like a holiday pig trying to escape.
I spent the night at my sister's place and the next day we all went to Denny's for breakfast. I hadn't eaten in around 2 days and was looking to chow. I recall having some sort of ham omelet. It was an enjoyable morning with my sister, her husband and my nieces, then it was off to my apartment, about 20 miles away. On the way home, something wasn't right. My insides started to churn about 2 miles from my place. I will save you the gory details, but I was gonna lose it between here and my own bathroom, just minutes away. I remember fiddling with my keys as I exited my car, squeezing everything as tightly as possible to avoid an accident. The damned security door to the building was sticking. I still had to run up the stairs, get through my own door and across the apartment to the John. It seemed like a marathon. Let's just say I fell short of the finish line.
I knew what the problem was! That freaking Denny's poisoned me! I got on the phone and called them. I asked for the manager and a cheerful voice answered, "This is Faraz. How can I help you?" "Well, Faraz, you can help me by not serving spoiled food that makes my insides explode out my ass, not 30 minutes after leaving your shithole of a restaurant! Your ham or eggs must be bad, because I got as sick as a dog on my ride home!" I then proceeded to tell him, in great detail, of the previous 45 minutes of my miserable life. He assured me that no one else was ill and it had to be something else. I told him I doubted that and left him shouting the parting words, "Go F*** yourself Faraz!" As I was hanging up on him I heard a voice come from the slamming receiver. It screamed, "Whaaaaaattttt!?" Click.
It was sometime later that I realized it could very well have been the aftermath of the anesthesia. I then immediately felt bad for unloading on Faraz. That wasn't me at all. I was usually polite to strangers, even in the most tense situations. That day I lost it in more ways than one. Sorry, Faraz, but I did get a somewhat amusing story out of it all and for that, I thank you. By the way, his name really was Faraz. I didn't make this up for comedic purposes. I am not sure why I recall with such clarity, his name and Trandelenburg, when sometimes I can't remember where I just put my keys...go figure.
Next time I will actually get to the big surgery day, itself.
Thanks for reading and cya next time,
M
What I ate Friday and how I exercised:
Breakfast ~ Kashi Island Vanilla cereal w/fresh blueberries and unsweetened vanilla almond milk
Lunch ~ A Boca burger 'Big Mac'. No cheese ( I kinda miss you, cheese.) and homemade secret sauce
Dinner ~ Pan-seared tilapia over braised kale and cannellini beans, with a brown rice pilaf. Also, a small order of Tom Yum chicken soup.
Exercise ~ None today
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