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.