How Did I Get Here?: Part 17

It was in August of 2009 that Colonel Sanders landed me in the hospital for almost a week.  I guess I should first give you the facts leading up to the southern fried trauma.  For years I dealt with an umbilical hernia.  This is when your intestines pop through a tear in your abdominal lining and cause a bubble-like protrusion.  It can happen in plenty of places on the body, but it is commonly in the navel.  That was the case with mine for the longest time.  My innie would become an outtie and, man, was it uncomfortable.


When you have such an ailment, the quick and easy way get relief is to simply 'pop' it back in.  It literally does make a squishy 'pop' sound.  In the beginning it was mild pressure that needed to be applied and the protrusion was small.  As time moved on it would get progressively larger and take more effort to right the situation.  At the bowling alley I would deal with it weekly.  I'd have to duck into the bathroom, start pressing and would grimace as the offending bubble would be banished back to its proper home.  Once or twice, if there was no private space in the john, I would have to slide my hand in just below the belt-line and do my thing in a common area.  A half-drunk keggler would come in and see me with my hand in my pants, doing unnatural gyrations and making pained expressions and I was sure I would be carted off to the hoosegow for public lewdness.  Maybe Pee Wee Herman just had a hernia?  Nah.


In the spring of 2009 I went to see a surgeon to find out how to fix the problem.  We targeted September of that year for the surgery.  The hernia had other ideas.  In August, my brother and sister-in-law were in from Vegas with their two boys and we were to babysit while they saw friends in the city.  Not being a expert on feeding picky kids, we opted for some good old KFC with all the trimmings.  After a couple of pieces of chicken, a biscuit or three and some slaw, I felt the warmth and dull queasiness in my midsection and knew it was time to do my reverse pop thing.  One problem though...my poultry packed intestine wouldn't budge.  I tried for an hour and no luck. The pain became increasingly more intense.  I was off to the last place I wanted to be on a Friday night; the E.R.  


The doctors, attendants and me, myself, tried for a few hours to resolve the herniated area.  I had teams of burly men in scrubs straddling me and pressing down.  Had I been Richard Simmons, this would've been like Disney World, but for me...not so much.  This went on for over three hours.  I was sore, bruised and battered.  Not battered like the extra-crispy goodness that did me in.  I am talking majorly beat up.  So much for September.  Bring in the A-team; the surgeons.


Surgery on someone of my size if never an easy undertaking (perhaps undertaking is a poor choice of words.).  The anesthesiologist actually got paid more than the surgeon. Keeping a fat man down during gut reconstruction is apparently quite an undertaking.  Since Ididn't wake up to find my innards all splayed out on my belly, I guess he did okay.  $4750 for two hours of work, even if at 2AM, is hard to swallow though.  I got through the operation just fine and spent a few more days recovering in the hospital.


While at Morristown Memorial I endured several indignities, self-imposed by my addictive habits.  My food addiction likely landed me in that bed and I accept that.  The first emotionally scarring moment was that once I actually was able to pass the Colonel through my system, I was in such discomfort that I couldn't maneuver around to clean myself.  I sat in the small bathroom wanting to die, knowing that I was gong to have to call for help.  A sweet faced, older woman answered my button press and cleaned me up without complaint.  I must have thanked her and apologized a hundred times.  It heightened my respect for these caregivers.  It also made me think that I never want to get old to the point where I can't take care of myself.


Another mortifying moment happened just as I was released.  One of the nurses pulled my wife aside and told her that they have scales in the beds.  Who knew?  She told Tab that I was tipping the scales, or bed rather, at 380 lbs.  For one thing, I wasn't aware that I was that heavy again.  Another was that I was thoroughly embarrassed and angry that she went to my wife, instead of me, with the info.  As much as you share with your spouse, there is a imaginary line that doesn't get crossed.  The obese are deluded into thinking it is our secret sometimes and being confronted with the ugly facts by the person you love the most is very hard to handle. Maybe that was the nurse's rationale, but despite these negative experiences, it took me another 18 months to reach the pivotal decision to change my life for good.


Cya next time,
M


What I ate Friday and how I exercised:
Breakfast ~ Kashi 7 Grain Nuggets w/banana, fresh blueberries, toasted pecans and almond milk
Lunch ~ A vegan stir fry with my friend Doug at Veggie Heaven in Denville, NJ
Afternoon snack ~ I made a smoothie with banana, almond milk, peanut butter, a handful of berries, cocoa powder and a couple of Splenda packets.  Unbelievably good!
Dinner ~ None due to my gig, but I snatched maybe 4 potato chips off the bar and had 2 O'Douls
Exercise ~ Another gig workout