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.