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.
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.
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