Khaki Slacks and Near Death Experiences

In case you forgot, I'm cleaning out my closet.

I've come across some khaki slacks that have been on a hanger for so long that there’s a horizontal perma-crease on the legs.  I bought these at a mall in Herzliya, Israel.  I flew to Israel in January, 2001 to teach a week-long engineering course.  Due to the Palestinian conflict, The US State Department had issued a travel restriction warning informing US citizens that it wasn’t safe to travel to, or within, Israel.  There were two problems with the warning.  One, I’d never been to Israel and I really, really wanted to go, and two, they were paying me a lot of money to teach the course.  Funny what we’ll do for money.  I’d never prostitute myself.  That would be wrong.  But, pay me enough and I’ll eat a bag of live rattlesnakes.  I wouldn’t eat the rattles, of course.

After delays and bad weather and missed planes, I arrive in Tel-Aviv thirty six hours later.  My bags arrived in Newark, NJ the day before.   I won’t give the name of the airline that lost my luggage, I have a bunch of frequent flier miles.  I’d hate to see them mysteriously disappear.  I'll call the airline by it's code name: "Atled."  They‘re the ones who lost my bags.  But they blame it on "Ecnarf Ria."  Because "Ecnarf Ria" was the airline that flew me from Paris to Tel-Aviv.  I’ve been to Paris a few times, each time it’s been a sprint though Charles de Gaulle airport to catch my connecting flight.  The French tourist industry should create a travel brochure that says, “While in Paris, be sure to visit the Louvre, and don’t forget to see the lovely concourses of Charles de Gaulle airport.”  Ahh, Paris.  I’ll never forget the 15 minutes we had together.

I have no clothes.  OK, I'm wearing clothes.  I'm not naked.  I wonder if people would have noticed if I was.  I do have all of my course materials because I packed them in my carry-on.  I remember hearing my wife say, “At least pack some underwear in your carry-on.” Silly wife. Of course I'm not going to pack underwear in my carry-on. My wife is right, as always. I always appreciate her helpful instructions several hours after I've disregarded them.  I'm sure I'll find some clothes in Israel.  I'm fairly certain that I'm not going to find my preferred underwear.

I finally make it to the hotel.  While I was patiently waiting at the lost luggage stand watching Israelis cut in front of me, my ride to hotel gave up and left.  So, I took a cab.  It cost $50.  I gave the driver a $10 tip.  I wanted to show my appreciation for the ear bleedingly loud, profanity laced hip-hop music that he played for the 40 minute trip. 

My company put me up at the Dan Accadia. It’s a nice hotel right on the Mediterranean. Too bad it is January.  I had some nice lonely walks on the beach.  I was informed later that an upstanding married person such as me wouldn’t want to be at the beach during summertime.  I guess there’s a one one-hundredth clothing to skin ratio.  Too bad I missed out. It's for the best though. Knowing me, my eyeballs would have exploded.

I get settled in my room and call the front desk.  I explain that the airlines have lost my luggage.  I ask if I may have a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some deodorant.  Immediately, there’s a knock on my door.  I open the door.  There’s a bellman.  He sees me and blurts out, “Oh!  You’re very big!”  I'm always flattered by such compliments.  The bellman hands me a small toiletries kit, a Dan Accadia t-shirt, and a three-pack of men’s thong underwear. I thank him.  But, I’m a terrible tourist.  I forget to give him a tip. There’s one pair of underwear missing from the three-pack. Maybe the bellman is wearing them.  Maybe it was a hint. I don’t want to know.  The t-shirt is a medium.  There's no deodorant in the toiletries kits.  There is a toothbrush.  First I use it on my teeth, then on my underarms.  Now I'll have that freshly brushed smell all day.

I’m at the company ready to teach.  The secretary gives me a promotional sweatshirt.  It's the biggest sweatshirt they have.  It barely fits, but at least it doesn’t stink.  I normally wear slacks and a dress shirt when I teach.  I’m wearing jeans and the sweatshirt.  I keep pulling it down so I don’t expose my bellybutton.  That evening the secretary calls a cab for me.  While I'm waiting, she tries to teach me some Hebrew.  She's trying to teach me how to tell the cab driver to take me to the local shopping mall.  Apparently I'm not a good student.  She finally gives up and writes it down and tells me to hand it to the cab driver. 

I arrive at the mall.  There are barriers about fifty feet from the mall entrance to keep terrorists from driving bomb-laden vehicles into the mall.  I get out of the cab and walk to the entrance.  Right inside the door is a guard with bomb detector.  He thoroughly examines my backpack.  This is pretty standard wherever I go. With all of the changes we’ve had to go through since 9-11, I don’t think we’re even close to the security measures the Israelis have to take to protect themselves.

I manage to find a pair of slacks.  The pair of slacks!  I find a shirt as well.  The slacks are too long.  Some very kind older women help me out.  There's a problem.  They speak very little English; I can’t even say “shopping mall” in Hebrew.  I speak VERY LOUD to them in English.  Of course, this is how to communicate when you’re in a foreign country.  My LOUD English doesn’t work.  What is wrong with these people?  

Seriously, I didn’t speak loud.  I didn’t want to attract terrorists.  “Hey, there’s a loud American!  If we blow him up, we get 100 points, plus the dinette set and 72 virgins.”

With the ladies' incredible patience and the use of some hand gestures I figure out that they're offering to hem my pants.  I'm grateful right up to the point that they start to measure my inseam.  I somehow communicate that I need socks.  They send me to women’s lingerie.  I find socks that fit, but they’re pink.  I stand in line with twenty women.  I didn’t think that Israel is a segregated country, but some of the stares make me wonder.

I find a Wallgreen’s-like drug store in the mall.  I find some deodorant.  From the selection, I’m guessing deodorant isn’t kosher.  I don’t know.  I’m just grateful to find some.  There is a young man at the check-out.  I ask him to call a cab for me.  I pay and leave the mall.

Just a note here about languages in Israel:  From my observation, everyone speaks Hebrew.  Since Israel is a homeland for Jews across the world, most of the citizens also speak the language of their country of birth.  And, most of the citizens under thirty speak English fluently.  I'm over thirty.  I speak broken English.

It is dark outside now.  I see a cab pull up to the side of the mall barrier.  I hop in.  The driver is an older man. I tell him, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel, Herzliya Beach, please.”  He turns and looks at me and in broken English says, “Where you want to go?”  I say, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel, Herzliya Beach.”  The driver gets on his radio, says something in Hebrew, then turns to me again and says, “Where?”  I’m starting to get a little nervous.  I’m pretty sure the cab drivers in Israel aren't homicidal, but they don’t look safe.  In a panicked voice, I say, “Dan Accadia (Uh-Kay-Dee-Uh) Hotel!!!  Herzliya Beach!!!”   The driver starts to slowly drive down a dirt road next to the mall. I know he's going to take my money and kill me, or kill me and then take my money.  Either way, I’m dead.  I should have listened to the State Department’s warning.  Worst of all, when they find my dead body, they'll see I'm wearing dirty underwear.

Suddenly the driver hits the breaks.  Here it is. The end. I’m done.  The driver taps his fist to his head and says, “Ahhh, Dan Accadia (A-Kaw-Dee-Uh)… Dan Accadia (A-Kaw-Dee-Uh).  He makes a U-turn and drives me right to my hotel.  First I kiss the hotel sidewalk, and then I kiss the cab driver.  I’m alive!!  The fare was $5.  I give him a $50 tip and thank him profusely for not killing me.  It would have been a shame to die over saying “Kay” when I should have said “Kaw.”

A week later, I’ve finished the class.  I’m trying to fly home from Ben Gurion airport in Tel-Aviv.  The nice security people are carrying machine guns and watching me out of the corners of their eyes.  Now I have a small bag (containing my new clothes and pink socks) and my carry on.  I’m trying to be friendly.  I’m saying, “I’m certainly no terrorist.  No sir, not me.”  It doesn’t work.  I get selected for the special screening.  They’re polite, but they put my luggage through an x-ray machine.  Then they put me through an x-ray machine.  Then they interrogate me with rubber hoses in a room with strange stains on the walls and carpet.  I confess to everything, including the JFK assassination.

Seriously, they x-ray my luggage.  Then they test everything for explosives.  They put security tape on my luggage and send me to my departing gate.  They really are very polite.

Even though some of them looked scary, all of the Jewish people I got to know were very friendly.  I have nothing bad to say about their country or the culture.  It was an amazing experience.  It seems that the majority of the population aren’t what they call, "Religious Jews.”  Out of eight students, I had one religious Jew.  He wore a Yarmulke (I expected everyone to wear a Yarmulke.  I only saw a few).  We talked religion, and found that (other than the belief in Jesus Christ) our religious beliefs were remarkably similar.  On the last day of class, he took me to a legitimate kosher restaurant.  The food was good.  It was like Grandma’s Sunday dinner.  Very filling.  Great comfort food.

I’m home now.  I call "Atled." They tell me my luggage is in Tel-Aviv.  It arrived the day before I left for home.  I’m talking LOUD in English so they understand that I’m not happy.  They pass me off to "Ecnarf Ria."  They finally agree to pay for my clothing and related expenses.  They inform me that they don’t do this for everyone.  I'm honored!  I feel very lucky.  How many of their customers are fortunate enough to be delivered to Tel-Aviv and have their luggage delivered to Newark. 

It is funny how a pair of slacks can bring back such vivid memories.

PS.  I washed my underwear in the hotel sink.  I dried them with the hotel blow-dryer. I never tried the thong underwear.  However, I know they were black and they were too small to be used even as polishing rags.  By the way, the socks weren't pink.

Thrift Stores and Walk-In Closets

It was five weeks ago today that I had surgery.  I’ve lost close to 45 pounds.  I’ve gone from a 44 waist and 3x shirts to about a 40 waist and 2x and XL shirts.  I’m noticing that my face looks skinnier.  My belly looks flatter, and I can actually see my wrists and ankles.  My wrists and ankles looked like the joints on the Michelin Man.  It seems like my waist isn't shrinking in proportion to rest of my body.  The belly is just tricking me by looking flatter.  It’s like I’ve gone from fluffy to flat pancakes.  It's still the same size around.

So, with the shrinkage, I decided to clean out my clothes closet.  It was about time, I guess.  My wife and I share a walk-in closet.  We share it in the sense that we don’t share it.  She uses the space she needs.  I get what’s left over.  I don’t mind.  My wife has a lot of clothes.  She rotates through them with the same frequency as Hailey’s Comet. 

I have my share of unworn clothes too.  They’re all sitting at the far end of the clothes rod gathering dust.  There seems to be a story attached to each article.  To get rid of them would be like throwing out family photos.  They remind me of some pleasant and not-so-pleasant memories.

Other than my underwear and socks, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t wearing at least one thrift-store item.  I love thrift stores.  I like to buy gently used items.  Some the items are used so gently that the jeans only have one hole in the knee.  I treasure the shirts that are missing buttons, or have a completely unrelated button as a replacement.  It’s like the previous owner didn’t even try.  All the buttons are off-white except one. It is right in the middle and it is twice as big and is jeweled with rhinestone, silver, gold, and turquoise accents. I leave it on.  No one will notice.

Under a pile of something resembling a knot of t-shirts and sweat pants, I see a pair of jeans that I purchased at a thrift store in Jackson, WY while we were on vacation in the Grand Tetons.  I think they fit me for one millisecond after I bought them.  I think I outgrew them walking to the car.  Now, I try them on.  Yeah!  They fit again.  They remind of the trip to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone that we took about five years ago.  We camped in the Tetons for a few days and then moved on to West Yellowstone.  The highlight of the trip was visiting the Grizzly and Wolf Discovery Center.  There we were able to experience Grizzlies and Wolves in their natural habitat, if their natural habitat is a fenced off enclosure in West Yellowstone.  We also got to see them forage for food in nature, if nature hides dead salmon in tree trunks, under logs, and behind boulders.  The most exciting part was when we visited the garbage can area.  On display are garbage cans that are supposed to be bear-proof.  To test the can’s worthiness, people put food in the garbage cans and throw them in with the bears (the garbage can, not the people).  There were several designs on display.  If I remember, most of them failed miserably.  Bear claws shred plastic.  I learned that.  I’m glad I saw this display before I started marketing my plastic bear-proof suit (two Hefty bags and a pair of moon boots).  I think they should take the garbage can’s designer, smear him with bacon grease, and put him in the can.  I would have paid double to see that (which would have been about $150 for two adults and three kids). 

I’m throwing out 3x shirts.  I’m throwing them right out of the closet and onto the bathroom floor.  You have to walk through the bathroom to get to the walk in closet, which is great for getting dressed right out of the shower, but a little inconvenient when you need a pair of socks and someone is ‘reading a book’ in the bathroom, if you get my drift.

Now I come across a really cool Hawaiian shirt that I bought at a very tidy thrift store in Manzanita, OR.  We stayed on the beach in near Manzanita for ten days.  It was the trip of a lifetime.  The thrift store was called The Hope Chest, and I was feeling pretty hopeful when I bought the shirt.  It is a 3x. It didn’t fit.  It was too small. I bought it anyway.  It’s hung in my closet for a year and a half.  I try it on now.  It still doesn't fit.  It is too big.  I’m disappointed.  I run out and buy a cheesecake.  I'll eat it all just so I can fit in this shirt again. It doesn’t help.  I figure if I really work at it, I could eat a cheesecake in three weeks.  Three weeks is too long.  I expect to be done cleaning before then.  I sadly add my Hawaiian shirt to the pile.   

More bad fitting clothes and worse stories to come...

Doctor M Has Got To Be Full Of It!

I was diagnosed with type-two diabetes probably three years after I actually caught it.  I guess you don't catch diabetes.  It's one of those nasty diseases that creep up on you. When it gets you, it's time to take things a little more seriously.  Or, you can do what I did. Ignore it and keep taking more medicine.  Life's great until they amputate a leg or a foot or a toe.  I guess losing a toe is a small price to pay. But, I never get off easy.  They'd end up amputating right below my head.

My family doctor is also my second cousin once removed or my first cousin twice removed or she used to be my cousin but a long court case ended up having me removed.  I can’t remember.  I do know two things, first, she’s younger than me, and second, she’s my mother’s first cousin.   Does this happen anywhere else but Utah?  My grandmother’s brother is having children after my grandmother's daughter already has three?

My point is: my family doctor is a relative.  I’m going to call her doctor M.  M and I grew up camping together; she with her parents and siblings, me with my grandparents.  After medical school she settled into a practice in Pleasant Grove.  When we moved to Pleasant Grove a few years ago, I looked her up.  She agreed to be our family doctor, but made it clear that even if she’s the last doctor on earth, she will never, ever give me a full physical exam!  This is wonderful news.  Because of my doctor, I haven’t had a physical in years.

Doctor M knows our family history, she knows about the drunken parties, the arson, the bank robberies, the illegitimate children…  She also knows our medical history, including the history of my brother that’s now my sister.  Worst of all, she knows that we have a history of diabetes. 

I started seeing M as a doctor about seven years ago.  I’d come in with the sniffles, or a sore throat, or the occasional catheter.  Every time I’d come in, she’d say, “We need to check you for diabetes!”  She’d say it urgently, like it was a big deal or something.  She always wanted to know if I was fasting.  Why would I fast to go see the doctor?  I don’t know… the things they teach in medical school...  Anyway, I’d always say, “No, I ate three donuts an hour ago.” 

This went on for a few years, I’d visit, she’d get all up in arms about diabetes, I tell her how I enjoyed the pre-appointment donuts and how I was planning on eating a few more after I left her office.  Then, one day she caught me off guard.  I wasn’t planning for it.  It was an early appointment.  She asked if I was fasting.  Before I could get out the donut story, she asked, “When was the last time you ate?”  I don’t know what I was thinking, but I told her the truth, “Ummm… probably around midnight.”  She was excited.  Then she told me why.  She said that I need to be without food for at least eight hours so they can test my “fasting” glucose levels. Apparently this test shows if you're diabetic.  Just like that.

She sent me over to the lab; they stole several vials of my blood.  One diabetes test requires them to take four hundred and fifty vials of my blood?  I check the phlebotomist’s reflection in the mirror.  I used to be able to watch them draw my blood, but my wife must be slipping whimpify flakes into my Wheaties.  I have to turn my head.  I whimper like a small child when I feel the prick of the needle. 

It’s about a week later.  I’m happily minding my own business insulting people on internet forums when the phone rings.  I never answer the phone.  Not because I’m lazy (HA! I’m lazy), but because the phone is never, ever for me.  The phone is for me.  It is doctor M.  She says she has bad news.  I have type-two diabetes.  I have to start on an oral medication called Metformin.  Plus I have to start eating better and exercising more.  Also, she said something about my blood having the consistency of brown gravy, and my triglycerides being the highest she's seen in her medical career. Whatever.

You know by now that I can enthusiastically dive into any new diet with vigor right up until the cheesecake arrives.  I can say no to every other vice except food.  To put it another way, I didn’t take care of myself.  The Metformin worked well controlling my blood glucose, but I had to keep increasing the dose.  After a couple of years, I was at the maximum allowable dose.  The next step was either an expensive pill or to begin insulin injections.  The injections are easy; I just pinch up a small piece of fat on my belly, stick in a needle, and push the plunger.  No big deal.  So, I had a choice.  I could sell my children into slavery, or take insulin injections.  I really do miss my kids.  Sometimes.

I’ve drawn up insulin in a syringe.  I’ve pinched up several pounds of fat (there are no small pieces of fat on me).  I am sitting.  I want to be closer to the floor when I faint.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  I take a deep breath.  I screw up my courage.  Now I’m staring at the syringe.  Finally, I plunge the syringe into my belly.  I plunged the syringe in my belly about the same way I enter a cold swimming pool, one micrometer at a time.  It didn't hurt, at least not too much.  It was no big deal.  This is going to be easy.  The next time I give myself a shot, I hit a nerve.  My eyeballs explode.

When I started to consider gastric bypass surgery, doctor M told me that it would cure my diabetes in just a few days.  When I talked about gastric bypass surgery with another doctor, he said the effectiveness of bypass surgery curing type-two diabetes is remarkable.  I told myself, these doctors are full of it!!!  I can see the type-two diabetes going away months after the surgery when I've lost a lot of weight, but within days of the surgery?  No way.

When I attended the orientation at RMAP, they said that in most cases, type-two diabetes is cured within a few weeks if not few days.  I’m still thinking, no way, but I've heard it enough now that I’m getting excited thinking about not having to take Metformin and give myself shots and check my blood glucose and check my feet for sores and watch for numbness in the lower extremities and hit nerves in my belly and get new eyeballs.

They did not give me Metformin during the two days in the hospital.  They gave me small doses of fast acting insulin around mealtimes.  Very small doses.  The doctor sent me home with instructions to not take Metformin ever again.  He told me to reduce my insulin dose to one-fifth of normal.  Two days after being home, I was getting very low blood sugar due to too much insulin.  I reduced the dose to one-tenth of normal; I still had low blood sugar.  I quit insulin.  I checked my blood glucose.  It is normal.  I check it later, it is normal.  No oral medication, no insulin, normal blood sugar?   I start to think my glucometer is broken.  I check it again.  My fingers are starting to look like I've been playing ‘toss the porcupine.’  My blood glucose level is still normal.  I check my blood regularly over the next few days.  I can't believe it.  I've been cured. 

Surgery on Monday, diabetes free by Friday.  Just a few days.  Huh?  I guess they were right.


PS. As far as I know, my brother is still my brother.  I haven't seem him for a while though. Hopefully he doesn't send me a photo of himself in a nice red dress... or a bikini. Especially a bikini.  Just the thought of that makes me envision Mrs. Sasquatch at the pool.  Sorry.

Give me a plate of Refried Beans, hold the Dr. Pepper.

Late August - Early September 2011

I was learning how to enjoy, and chew, beef broth.  I was even getting a wild urge to try chicken broth.  I never had the urge to chew on pork broth.  I don’t know if they make pork broth.  For some reason pork broth just sounds wrong.  I don’t know why.  What if they made bacon broth?  If so, I would still be on a liquid diet.

I’m taking the giant leap to solid foods.  When I say solid foods, I mean foods that are more solid than broth.   I think pasty foods would be a more appropriate description.  The big treat for me is eating refried beans.  I love refried beans with some marinated chicken and sour cream with cheese and salsa all wrapped up in a nice flour tortilla with some Mexican rice.   Only I can’t have rice or tortillas because they have too many carbs.  I can have salsa and cheese and sour cream, but the goal is to get as much protein as possible into a ¼ cup serving.

Let me just pause right here and talk about my post-surgery, post-broth-and-Jello diet.  Now that my stomach has been turned into a pouch (like a kangaroo but with fewer offspring), it has the volume of a chicken egg (about ¼ cup).  The point of the surgery is to eat less and to get my body to burn fat.  My ¼ cup meals need to be high protein, low fat, and no carbs.  This will cause my body to use the stored fat and convert it to sugars to power my body and my brain.  Since my brain has been off the grid for several years, I’m only burning fat to power my body, and something is wrong, because this body is seriously underpowered.  I get winded watching other people run.

Also, the pouch isn’t good for storing water.  It’s good for passing water right on through to my small intestine.  So, I’m supposed to drink several gallons of water every day.  My water requirements are so high, I just get into the bathtub, fill ‘er up, and use a straw.  I’m both clean and hydrated, although the diarrhea is a mystery.  Maybe I need to switch from Dial to Irish Spring.

Seriously, I need to drink 64 ounces of water daily.  I am not to drink 30 minutes before and after meals.  No washing down the food.  Even the opening into my stomach is smaller, which means I have to take very small bites of food.  I’m supposed to chew the electron-sized bites into the consistency of yogurt.  Sometime I forget and the food either gets stuck, or I bring it all back up.  I’m not sure which is most uncomfortable.  Either way, my body is training me to slow down and chew my food thoroughly.  All this chewing will have my molars ground to nubs within 6 months.

I'm used to drinking all the time.  I was drinking –seriously –about 200 ounces of diet cola every day.  I know how to drink.  Oh, also, there’s no coffee, tea, tobacco, alcoholic or carbonated beverages allowed after this surgery.  Tea and Coffee, no problem.  Tobacco… well, I’ve been trying to quit wearing tobacco leaves on my head for years.  The surgery forced me to break that bad habit.  Alcohol?  Let’s just say that 30 years ago when I woke up with my head in someone's toilet and couldn’t account for the previous 6 hours, it cured me of the desire to ever drink again.  Even if I wasn’t living my religion, I don’t think alcohol and I would be very good friends.  But, the carbonated drinks?  Wow!  I had to undergo a 4-week weaning from diet Dr. Pepper and Coke Zero.  When I finally got down to one 12-ounce can per day, I stopped.   The withdrawal headaches weren’t that bad, if you enjoy sticking your head in a vise and having a sadistic neighbor crank it down.  But, less than a week after I quit, I was free of the headaches.  I’ve had migraine headaches for the past several years.  I thought they were a result of an old neck injury.  I haven’t had a migraine since quitting the diet cola.  But, I’m not perfect.  I saw a Coke Zero in a vending machine last week and I had to turn away and sing my favorite hymn.

Sorry, I intended this post to be about my giant leap from liquid food to pasty food. 

Anyway I’ve started on more solid foods.  For breakfast I’m eating cottage cheese.  I’ve never really known where cottage cheese comes from.  I try not to think about it because it tastes much better than broth and Jello.  For lunch and dinner I’m eating refried beans.  It is like a ¼ cup serving of heaven.  I really do love refried beans. 

Back Home, Eating Well

August 24 - 28

We're finally driving home. I keep looking back to see if the nurse is waving a catheter out her car window while chasing us.  I'm so glad to be out of there.  I hope I'm never in need of "medical care" again in my life.

I already feel thinner.  But, not a good thin.  I feel the thin that I feel when I've eaten a 2-week old Whopper and spend the next four days on my knees in the bathroom.

Apparently, the surgical suite is right next to the highway.  I know I've been run over by a truck. I keep lifting up my shirt to look for tire tracks.  The Dr swears I haven't been run over.  He says it is normal to feel this way.  Normal or not, I feel flatter.

My trusty 'Bass Pro Shop' t-shirt has blood stains on it.  I'm looking good.  Looking rugged.  I try to talk my wife into stopping somewhere nice.  She's in league with the nurse and the Dr.  She drives me straight home and puts me to bed.

My surgical tape (or 'steri-strips' as they're called) is not doing its job.  I'm bleeding out from behind the strips.  I put band-aids over the strips, then I put gauze over the band-aids, then I duct tape a medium sized rabbit over the gauze.  It is a good look for me.  Plus all the fur keeps my belly warm.  But, it's like putting scotch tape on the end of a fire hose; I'm still bleeding through to my prized t-shirt and onto the bed sheets, the blankets, the ceiling, and the neighbors roof.  My wife says I look like I've survived a knife fight.  I think she's right, except for the part about surviving.

Since I've been home, I've had nothing but the best beef.  It is so good, I eat it for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner.  Plus, I get to eat some great dessert.  I never thought I could chew beef broth, but I think it is just a natural reaction to the rich beefy flavor.  I sip a microliter of beef broth.  Chew it carefully.  Swallow.  I can enjoy my meals for up to twenty minutes this way.  I used to eat a rack of ribs, two cobs of corn, mashed potatoes, and a large piece of cheesecake.  I'd marinate it all with Diet Coke.  Now my meal consists of one ounce (THAT'S RIGHT, ONE OUNCE!!!) of beef broth and one ounce of sugar free Jello.

The amazing thing is, my body is full on this amount of food, but my brain isn't.  I'm lying in bed with my brain, and it is saying, "You idiot!!!  You could have eaten a whole cheesecake every night!!  What is wrong with you?  Why didn't you eat TWO Whoppers with cheese (no tomato) for every meal???  You had the opportunity to really enjoy food and you blew it!!!  You could have bathed every night in a chocolate-caramel malt while eating a whole un-sliced pizza!!  I'm so angry at you!!! Forget what the Dr said, go eat something good, RIGHT NOW! Auuuggggghhhhh!!!"

My brain is mean. It makes me cry.  The folks at RMAP told me there would be an emotional 'separation' from food during the first few weeks.  They didn't tell me my brain would try to kill me.

According to our $8 Wal-Mart bathroom scale (I will not spend more than $8 on something that has brought me nothing but bad news for the past 30 years) I weigh roughly 305 pounds.  When I get home from surgery I'm down to 293.  This is a big deal; not that I've lost 12 pounds, but that the bathroom scale will actually tell me my weight. For the past year or two when I've stepped on the scale it just gives me a big frowny face (it's a digital scale).  When I stepped on it recently, It showed a huge man on a donkey with splayed legs.  The donkey has steam coming out its ears and has 'Xs' over it's eyes.  I'm not sure what that means, but I get the impression that it's not good.  Maybe it is a built in motivational technique.  Maybe some of the old ladies from Weight Watchers sneaked in to the factory and made some 'changes.'  I guess I payed $8 to be insulted, which is still cheaper and better than several movies I've seen this year.

I really did lose about 12 pounds in the hospital. But, I think I should have lost more.  It felt like I sweated out at least 20 pounds getting the catheters.

A Big Thanks

Although at one point I fantasized about taking them out (not to dinner), I really want to thank my surgeon, Dr McKinlay at RMAP, and my nurse, Dori at St. Marks Hospital.

Dori now knows me inside and out.  She said if we ever run into each other at the store, we'll either ignore each other, or talk about baseball.  Either way, I'll be wearing a cup.

These folks really did give me top notch care.  Although I went through some miserable experiences, I never doubted their abilities to take care of me.

Thanks Doc.

Thanks Dori.

I've Had The Blessing, Now Pull The Drain

The Hospital Stay Part 3 - August 24, 2011

My dignity is gone, and so are my teeth. I completely lost my dignity during the catheterization yesterday. I lost my teeth while gnawing through the metal bed rails while getting the second catheter. I thought the first one hurt, but no, it was a just a little introductory pain. I think the nurse could have used a power drill with a large bit and not inflicted more pain this time around.

I'm not happy. I'm mad. Mad at myself for choosing this, mad at the nurse for doing her job, mad at the bed for being uncomfortable, mad at the walls because they're ugly, mad at the door because it's latch is loud, mad at the lights, mad at the ceiling, the carpet, the window, mad, mad, mad!

I'm lying there in my four-star bed and my in-laws and their neighbor walk in. My father-in-law says he's there to give me a priesthood blessing. I'm too mad to feel anything spiritual. But I don't tell him this. My father-in-law and his neighbor give me a blessing. I'm grateful for it, but I'm in such a foul mood that I really don't have much faith that it will help. My in-laws and their neighbor wish me the best and leave.

My nurse tells me if I'm really good, I can get the catheter out at 6 AM. It is 9 PM and 6 AM is about three months away. It's going to be another long night. I'm watching some program about alien invasions and viruses. I can't sleep, but I can't seem to keep my attention fully on the TV program. I do remember at one point people would start shaking all over and then their eyes would explode. I'm praying my whole body explodes. Maybe I should watch an infomercial instead.

The nurse comes in at 4 AM. She tells me that my urine looks great, like a fine white wine. I've never tasted white wine, but if it tastes like urine I don't see why people make such a fuss over it. I can actually feel my bladder working again, so I beg the nurse to take out the catheter. It's two hours early, but there's no one there to catch us. She agrees! I'm free once again, although she does say something about going and burning and blood, but I don't care. Now I'm going every five minutes. Not because I have to, but because I'm like a kid with a new toy.

I can call it coincidence, or normal recovery from anesthesia, or luck, or whatever. But, I think it was the priesthood blessing that got things working right. I appreciate my wife for calling her father. I appreciate my father-in-law rounding up another priesthood holder and giving me a blessing. I'm fortunate to be surrounded by such good people.

I'm finally asleep. It's been a long time since sleeping. Someone is poking me in the back. LEAVE ME ALONE!!! It's morning now. 7 AM. My surgeon is here, he poked me awake. He's apologizing for the bladder troubles. He says, "Sometimes it just has a hard time waking up..." I think every Dr should experience the same pain as their patient, so I jump out of bed and tackle him to the ground!! I yell, "NURSE! BRING THE CATHETER!!!" The nurse doesn't cooperate. I learn whose side she's really on. The Dr remains unharmed.

The Dr says I can go home around noon. I ask if I can go home RIGHT NOW?!?! He says, "OK, you can have an early checkout, but we don't want you to feel like we're kicking you out." Kicking me out? Oh man! I'm so excited to get home. I’ll be ready to go in five minutes. These nurses and aides know me a little too intimately now. I want to get as far away from them as possible.

My wife arrives and I'm ready to go, more than ready to go. The nurse is off talking to someone about TV studios in the other room. I need to nurse to take out my IV, my drain, and my incision staples. He's still goofing off. Now I'm bouncing on the bed and screaming, "LET ME GO!!" Finally he comes in. First he pulls out the staples. They look like wide office staples. It doesn't hurt, or maybe it does but my threshold for pain is a hundred times higher. Now comes the best part of the whole hospital stay. He's removing the drain. He unpicks the stitches around the drain incision. He disconnects the plastic toy hand grenade. He says, "Take a deep breath." I take a deep breath. He quickly pulls a thousand yards of plastic tubing out of my abdomen. I don't scream, I just start twitching and shaking violently. My eyeballs explode.

Actually, He pulls out about one foot of surgical tubing. It was one of the weirdest things I've ever felt. I imagined I was undergoing a medieval execution. I was being disemboweled before being drawn and quartered.

He puts surgical tape over my incisions and gives me instructions to leave them alone and they'll come off "naturally" in about three weeks. They'll end up coming off much, much sooner.

Now I’m in a wheelchair, the nurse’s aide is pushing me toward the elevator. She's an average-sized woman. I'm still a pretty big boy. I know I can walk, but it's "policy" to be wheeled to the car. I feel a little embarrassed. I wish I was still wearing my bloody hospital gown. Then I’d look like I deserve a ride in a wheelchair. Instead, I’m wearing a ‘Bass Pro-Shop’ t-shirt, shorts, and sandals. I look homeless. I’ve felt homeless for a couple of days.

Now I’m in the car and we’re headed home.

I get to go home today... maybe

The Hospital Stay Part 2 - August 23, 2011

I’m still catheterized.  My nurse is impressed with my urine production.  I guess she has to be a fan of something.  I’d think she’d be more impressed with figure skating, or wrestling, or even NASCAR.  From the way she comes in and checks on it, you’d think I was producing gold.

They brought me breakfast this morning.  I don’t know why people complain about hospital food, my breakfast was awesome!  They gave me an ounce of beef broth and one ounce of sugar free Jello.  To make it even better, it wasn’t called Jello, it was called gelatin surprise or something similar.  My biggest surprise is that it didn’t have shredded carrots.

Yesterday, my wife brought me my laptop, my iPod, my cell phone, a big screen HD TV, a Dolby surround sound home theater, and 120 blu-ray discs.  All of the stuff just sits there unused.  All I can do is nothing.  I just lay there like a slug.  I leave a trail of slime whenever I move.

Actually, I’ve been able to get up, drag my IV stand around, and do a few laps around the nurses’ station.  My hospital gown is blood stained.  My wife wants me to change into a clean gown, but I think the blood looks pretty cool.  If anyone asks, I put on my most serious expression and tell them the blood is from gunshot wounds.  Then I tell them about the miracle surgery and how the Doctor saved my life.  This story seems to cheer them up.

Speaking of cheering up, the Doctor said I can be released at 6 PM today.  I’m really looking forward to getting the staples out of my incisions, and the drain out of my side.  The drain is more uncomfortable than the catheter (which is saying a lot).

Just before lunchtime, the nurse comes in removes my catheter.  Ahhhhhh sweet relief.  At this point, I don’t care about the humiliation, I’m just glad to be free.  No more collection bag by the side of my bed.  I feel bad for the nurse though.  Either she’s going to have to catheterize someone else or pick up a new hobby. 

My lunch was terrific; the chefs in the hospital kitchen really went overboard to please me.  This time they give me an ounce of beef broth and one ounce of different colored Jello… um… gelatin surprise.

Shortly after lunch, the nurse walks in and takes away my Morphine.  Just like that.  Morphine was such a good friend.  I knew how to push its button; it knew how to relieve my pain.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.  But, I think it for the best.  A co-dependent relationship developing and I’m just not at a point in my life where I want that.  The nurse is going to start giving me liquid Lortab.  One dose of liquid Lortab is essentially a meal for me.  I like it though; it gives me an excuse to skip dinner (an ounce of beef broth and an ounce of gelatin surprise).

At this point, I don’t care what they do.  I’m going home in a few hours.  Then I’ll sleep for three days in my own comfortable bed.  There’s just a minor problem… I still can’t go.  Since they removed the catheter, I still haven’t been able to go on my own.  I’m not concerned; my total fluid intake for the day so far is two ounces of broth.  How could I go?  There’s nothing in there.

My wife is here to take me home!  She’s rounding up the nurse to do what he needs to do so I can be released.  Stupid nurse.  He insists that I NEED to “go” before I can go.  I can’t go, I’m empty, right?  No, I’m not empty because I’VE HAD THE STUPID IV DRIPPING FLUID INTO MY BODY ALL DAY!

I’m in the bathroom begging my bladder to please wake up.  I feel like I’m in a movie where the main character has died, and I’m holding him saying, “Please, please wake up.  Please.”  My bladder is being a jerk!  Finally from just the pressure of an extremely full bladder I’m able to get out about three drops.  And that’s it.  It won’t work, I can’t make it work, which means that I can’t go home and I’m going to be stuck in the hospital forever living off of beef broth and gelatin and I’m going to get so sick of it all that I’m going to start raiding the other patients rooms and possibly have to turn to cannibalism to survive!!!

I’m pretty depressed because cannibalism really isn’t my thing.  It may work for others, but I’ve never really been able to get into it.  But, I soon realize I had life pretty good.  In walks the nurse, she’s got a package in her hand.  Inside the package is……….. Auuuuuggggghhhhhhh!!! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!  

The nurse is here to give me another catheter.

My bladder is Rip Van Winkle and I'm in for a lot of fun.

The Hospital Stay Part 1 - August 22, 2011

It is quiet, the room is dark. The door latch is loud. Louder than loud. I guess it's their way of letting you know that whatever state of sleep you're in, it's about to be ruined.

I actually feel kind of flattered that they want to take such good care of me. They're coming in all the time to check my IV, my heart rate, my blood pressure, my tire pressure, and my blood sugar. It is getting late on this first day in the hospital. They want me to urinate. I can't.

According to Wikipedia (I you can't trust Wikipedia, who can you trust?), the Urinary Bladder is a hollow, muscular, distensible (or elastic) organ. The Nurse says that the bladder sometimes doesn't wake up from the anesthesia. I’ve been trying to go all day. Finally the nurse says she's giving me an hour. I still can’t go. This experience gives me some empathy for those who are paralyzed. A part of my body doesn’t work anymore, no matter how hard I try to ‘think it into action.’ Now I’m really hurting because my bladder is full to bursting. Stupid bladder, it's totally lying down on its job as a muscular organ.

Start the scary music because the nurse just walked in and said, "something, something, CATHETER, something, blah, blah, blah." I'm praying that my bladder will wake up RIGHT NOW!! No luck. My bladder is Rip Van Winkel, and I'm in for a lot of fun.

For those of you that don't know what a catheter is, or those who don't know how they administer a urinary catheter to men, you'll have to look it up. I won't give any descriptive details here because it is one of the most humiliating and painful experiences of my life. I'm now pounding on the happy Morphine button, but even Morphine can't kill the emotional and physical pain that I'm in right now.

Catheter is in. I'm full of Morphine. My bladder feels so much better, but I'm experiencing a lot of discomfort in areas that I never, EVER wanted to feel.  However, I am enjoying the lovely moments when the nurse's aide comes in and 'drains my bag.' It’s like a reverse IV. Fluids are now dripping out of me.

Speaking of fluids, the surgeon left this crazy plastic tube in my abdomen. I have a receptacle attached to the left side of my belly. It looks like a hollow plastic toy grenade. This tube is connected to the grenade, and it is filling up with what looks like two parts blood and one part of something I don’t want to think about. In addition to emptying my urine bag, the nurse’s aide empties the grenade as well. The most bizarre thing is that they measure fluids as they empty them. I can hear the nurse saying, “ahhhh… 500cc urine, wonderful…” I think they’re selling it as fertilizer.

The Big Day

August 22, 2011

It's here, the big day.  I'm neither nervous nor excited.  I feel slightly drunk.  After the internal cleansing and the clear liquid diet I feel wobbly.

My wife and I set off for Salt Lake.  I'm driving.  Wait.  Now my wife is driving.  I feel like sleeping.  I don't think they're going to need much anesthesia to put me under.  Maybe there was something in the antibacterial soap.  Maybe it's the lice.  I don't know.

We arrive at St. Mark's hospital and they escort me into a small curtained off room.  I change into a luxurious disposable hospital gown.  I love it.  If I have a good sneeze the gown will disintegrate and I'll be naked. I tell my wife, "no sneezing allowed!"  She uses her quietest voice.

The nurse informs me that 'Biker Bob' is going to come in and shave my stomach.  His real name is something like, 'Fred' or 'Dave,' but when he walks in he's 'Biker Bob.'  He wears a 'doo rag' and looks like he hasn't shaved in a couple of weeks.  The irony isn't lost on me.  I'm guessing he tells his Harley riding buddies that he operates heavy equipment for a living.  He'd be shamed right out of the club if he told them he shaves people prior to surgery.  Anyway, he is wearing scrubs and has a name tag, so I assume he's the right guy.  And he is.  He shaves my stomach bald.  Now I really feel naked.  But, the lice have lost their home in the forest and I'm grateful.

After the deforestation, it is all a blur.  Someone starts an IV in my arm, I say goodbye to my wife and they wheel me away to surgery.  I see bright lights and large computer monitors...

I don't know where I am.  I want to throw up, but I can't wake up enough to do anything about it.  I think my wife is in the room and there's a few other people coming and going.  I want them all to be very, very quiet, but they keep talking.  I even hear some laughter.

I still have an IV and there's various bags dripping fluid into my body.  Also, there's a Morphine pump and I get to push the button to activate it.  It's not as great as it sounds.  It will only allow me to push it every few minutes.  For now, I'm pushing it every five seconds.  It does no good, but at least I feel like I'm doing something.

I finally come out of the anesthesia and Morphine haze and realize that I'm not dead.  I'm not sure if this is a good thing.  I'm in a closet-sized room and my wife and kids are here.  Fortunately, the nausea is gone and I actually feel OK.  My kids tell me later that I was actually able to carry on a conversation.  I don't remember much other than they were in the room.  Who knows, maybe I promised them all a new car.  A trip to Disney World?  I don't want to think about it.

I'm feeling OK as long as I keep hitting the magic Morphine button.  It is now late evening.  My wife has gone home.  I'm now at the mercy of the nurse and her aide. I think the first thing they learn in nursing school is, never let the patient sleep.  Never!

I'm in for a fun night, and I don't have the lice to keep me company.

The Final Week

Mid-August 2011

Ten days before the surgery, I'm supposed to start a thousand calorie, high protein, low carb diet.  My surgeon wants all of his pre-surgery patients to do this.  It helps shrink the liver and gives him more working room in the abdominal cavity.  We have a family reunion a week before the surgery.  I decide that I'll start the diet right after the reunion.

I buy some "Atkins" brand protein shakes for breakfast and lunch.  I buy some "Lean Cuisine" frozen meals for dinner.  I do pretty well sticking to the diet on Monday and Tuesday.  On Wednesday, I nosedive and auger the diet right into the ground.  It is "Whopper Wednesday" at Burger King!  How can I resist a Whopper with cheese, no tomato, and a side of onion rings.  I can't.

I restart the diet on Thursday and I do pretty well... except that I'm starving.  It isn't "Whopper Thursday," but I pretend it is.  How can I resist a Whopper with cheese, no tomato, and a side of onion rings.  This time I am strong.  I only get the Whopper... with cheese, no tomato.

I can't remember what happened on Friday, but knowing me, I'm sure I ate something inappropriate.  Maybe I ate a scoop of peanut butter right before bedtime.  It doesn't matter, at this point I've given up.  I'll just have a fat liver.

This is a great example of my dieting behavior, only in fast-forward.  I do well for a while, then I'm starving, then the food cravings hit, then the slightest temptation comes, then I'm done with the diet.  The cumulative effect of my various diets have resulted in my losing over a hundred pounds.  I've gained back a hundred and thirty.

It's a good thing that I've ditched the diet.  I have Saturday and Sunday left to enjoy food. Saturday we go out for cheeseburgers as a family for my son's birthday.  On Sunday, my last day to live, I sneak off to Joe's Crab Shack with my son.  He gets crab legs, I get crab cakes.  Also, as part of my last meal, I get a very large piece of cheesecake.  It is about 1 PM Sunday when we finish our meal.  I have to stop eating solids around 2 PM.  It's going to be clear fluids for the next couple of days. This is where the real fun begins.

By the way, there are still two Lean Cuisine dinners in the freezer.

During the week, I had to attend a pre-surgery class, pay a $500 education fee to the surgeon's office, pre-register at the hospital, and have my fluids checked (fill 'er up with premium and add a quart of 10W-30 while you're at it).  During pre-registration, the nurse gives me two bottles.  One is a quart of turbo-laxative.  The other bottle is full of delousing soap, or something like that.  Actually it is antibacterial soap.  I'm instructed to drink (thank goodness it's an oral laxative, if you get my drift...) the laxative at 6 PM the day before the surgery.  I'm also told to wash my belly with the antibacterial soap the night before and the morning of the surgery.

I was warned to stay very near a bathroom once I take the turbo-laxative.  I didn't know what to expect.  Now that I know, I won't ruin your dinner by sharing the details, other than to say that I felt fully cleansed on the inside.  Also, they were right about staying close to the bathroom.

I made it a point to wash my belly thoroughly the night before and the morning of the surgery.  I don't know if it killed off all the lice, but I'm sure I was bacteria free.

Tomorrow is the big day.  I have to be at the hospital around 7 AM.  I'm going to find out soon that the lice don't stand a chance.

A haze of appointments, seminars, and paperwork.

May through Mid-August 2011

To actually have bariatric surgery, the surgeons at RMAP and the insurance company required me to jump through several hoops.  May through August was filled with insurance, surgeon, and hospital related paperwork. In addition to the paperwork, I had to meet with a dietitian, my surgeon, and a psychologist.

I guess they wanted me to visit a psychologist to make sure that I was competent enough to understand what I was getting into.

The meeting with the psychologist cost $400.  The insurance covered $370.

I was escorted into a small office with a desk and was given a number 2 pencil and a couple of tests where I answer the questions by filling in the bubble.  The questions were great!  I was asked true or false statements such as, "I flew across the Atlantic 36 times last year," and "I was on the cover of several magazines this month."  Of course, I answered 'true' to all of these questions.  After taking the tests, I met with the psychologist for about 5 milliseconds.  With his back to me, typing on his computer, he asked me why I wanted the surgery, and how much weight I wanted to lose.  He then turned to me and said, "thank you, I think you make a good candidate for bariatric surgery."  And that was it.  $400.  I'm in the wrong profession.

I don't wan't to gripe about the psychologist too much.  By sheer coincidence, he is the same psychologist that did a great job counselling me when I went through my divorce 16 years ago.  I wonder if he's still as good, or if he's sunk to doing quicky evals for the insurance/surgeons.

Finally after meeting with my surgeon, the dietitian, and the psychologist, and attending another seminar, I'm ready to go.  My insurance has approved the surgery, and my date is August 22nd.  Time to get nervous...

It's a long way away...

Early May 2011

I'm going to a Bariatric Surgery Seminar at Rocky Mountain Associated Physicians (RMAP).  My wife is with me.  I trust her to remember all of the details.  She's good at taking notes, asking questions, and keeping me organized.

I'm not scared, I really want this.  My weight has slowly been creeping up to the point that I'm over 300 pounds.  Plus, I have diabetes II and sleep apnea.

The seminar is a bit of a sales pitch, but mostly good information about the various bariatric surgeries that are available.  I learn that the Roux-En-Y surgery is probably the best for me.  The outcome of this surgery is the possibility of losing all of my excess body weight (and thus ridding myself of sleep apnea) as well as curing my diabetes II.

At the end of the seminar, we pick up a packet with roughly 5,000 pages.  Once we've filled it out, we can move on to step two, which is... ummm... let me get back to you.  I didn't take any notes.

Seriously, we are beginning the process of getting insurance approval.  Fortunately our health insurance covers bariatric surgery.