hannie’s spot. all hannie.

Real quick, before I go into my story, for those of you who have heard that wls, specifically RNY type surgery will “cure” GERD and acid reflux, it’s not always true. I say that because right now, I reek of vomit. I haven’t thrown up, but I smell that awful smell of stomach acid yuk yuk that has come out during the night and gotten all over my cheeks. I had my hair pulled back otherwise my hair would be stuck to my face as well. This happened about year six…that is, the waking up covered in nasty slime and smelling horrible. Or the waking up choking on stomach acid and feeling it burning your esophagus and your nose. It happens, and funny thing is, I know of a couple other people who are far out like me that it happens to as well. What to do about it? It’s a major indicator for me that I need to destress in my life, and quickly. I need to tip my pillows up so my head is resting higher. It will soon pass. Medicine wise, what works for me best in situations like this is a nice hearty chomp on Pepsid Complete. You’d think something like Nexium or Prilosec would work wonders for me. Nope. Anyways, welcome to Tuesday, and allow me to tell you about the last trip to the hospital. Hm, haven’t been keeping up to date, so make that last few.

I took the picture of the glucose meter and went to see the nutritionist real quick to show picture and make an appointment. She threw a weird word at me “gastroparesis”, told me that I was going to be denied surgery because I was not in there with her all the time (I might not like her, but I have held up my monthly obligation to her) and that I’d better go talk to my surgeon. Hm, not good. I don’t like medical terms thrown at me without a real clear explanation. And there is NO WAY my surgeon would have said something like that, ever. So I promise her that yes, I’ll make it to a support group meeting and yes I have an appointment with her and yes, I’ll go talk to my surgeon. I call instead and the receptionist tells me some weird story about how the surgeon has pulled my radiology files and he wants to go earlier than later. Hmm, tell him to get back to me on this.

A few days go by, and I don’t hear from him. But I have an appointment Wednesday with my regular doctor, so I’ll stop by and find him then. Inquiring minds must know. I go up to see my doctor, and she tells me that she doesn’t think I have gastroparesis at all. However, the blood sugar is a huge concern, especially since no one has ever checked it and it comes and goes. I get a consult to an endocrinologist. I’m told how to take care of meds because she’ll be gone due to maternity leave, and checked out to see if I’m worse off. I ask her about surgery and being taken off the books and she laughs. Do I really honestly think that I’m going to be taken off the schedule over something so petty that the nutritionist says? If the surgeon really had that much of a problem with me, don’t you think that I’d be having him yelling in my ear on the phone? (She does raise an important point here).

She says she just talked to the surgeon, and he wants to either move my surgery up to July or back to September, but it’s not an issue of what he might have seen/rechecked, but that it’s staffing. He knows we have to do this surgery. I need to go up there and talk to him. Go. Go. Don’t call, go. So I’m on my way, and I get to the floor.

Halfway there, I see someone down the hall that looks suspiciously like my surgeon. Then I hear my name being yelled. Oh, guess it IS. He shows up with a colleague, and explains in “doctorese” my case to the other doctor, finishing with “and she still loves me”. Yes. I do. Absolutely. I show him my picture of the glucose meter, and give him the “gastroparesis” and he disagrees with that word. He explains to me that I still dump, and he thinks that because of that, it messes with my blood sugar and causes the hypoglycemia attacks. The second doctor looks at both of us strangely. I explain to him that I am one of the fortunate few, that at seven years post-operatively, I still have the ability to dump. The surgeon explains dumping to the other doctor. Truly, I’m to the point where talking about and explaining the idea behind a working RNY is fascinating stuff. Scary in some respects, but fascinating in others. I don’t think I could bring myself to watch the surgery channel though. No. But medical discussions, oh yes, cool stuff. Why oh why did I not get more interested in science in high school and go through chemistry and physics?

So we get to the subject of surgery and he confirms that yes, he’s thinking about July or September. Staffing is an issue right now, and he wants to bring in a second surgeon for not only safety but because it’s going to be quite a bit of work. I can totally understand that. He tells me that he knows I don’t want to hear September because that means another month of waiting around and driving myself nuts and feeling awful, but he really wants that second surgeon there. I’m good. I’ll wait if I have to.

He tells me great and thank you, while hiding his diet Coke and telling me he’s hoping that I’ve really cut back. (I’m trying but need to try harder). Then he tells me to walk around the corner, get an appointment, and I’ll officially be put on the books somewhere with that appointment. Appointments are hard to come by with him these days, but we need to do this. I thank him, tell the other doctor bye, and it’s off to make more appointments.

I get to the appointment desk and there’s the usual corpsman and a new guy. They get me booked for an appointment and I’m on my way out of the hospital. Goodie. In the next couple of weeks, I get to look forward to…another support group meeting (again, have to try to be as nice as possible), meeting with nutritionist and meeting with surgeon. And that’s about it, as my friend Stef would say, from here.

I went to the massage therapist today. I was there, on time, got in there, and she worked my legs and back over. She was working on my left leg and I felt this huge POP. It was as if this massive pressure somehow released from my leg. I could feel my entire leg. For the first time. In over a year. I wanted to cry I was so overjoyed with happiness. She bends my leg for a second time and a second POP happens. More release, and my foot hurts nothing like it had previously. Wow. I asked her if she heard or felt that and she said she did. I told her what happened each time she did it, and she was amazed. I was amazed as well. I wanted to cry and dance with joy.

However, by the time I got out, I only had 15 minutes instead of my usual 30 to get to Bremerton to my other doctor. I called to let them know I was running late, but they let me know that I would need to reschedule. I felt so very bad, because I felt as if I was letting my doctor down by not being able to show up on time. I wanted to cry yet again. I rescheduled, but for another week. In doing that I would be fully out of meds, which one I cannot be out of for any length of time. I let the person know this and she told me that the doctor would call me back. The doctor didn’t get back to me today. Oh well. I’m sure she will. I’ll be sure to apologize to her, and tell her that I’ll be sure not to schedule anything else again on the same day as her appointments. It’s important to make those appointments, as well as anyone else there at the hospital.

It was maybe six months or so after having gastric bypass surgery, back in 2001, that I developed symptoms of hypoglycemia. I talked to my surgeons, and they told me that it wouldn’t be a problem, not to worry about it, and if it should somehow happen again, eat a protein bar or some peanut butter. (For the record, neither work for me. I inhale lots of sugar, feel better for maybe ten minutes, and then dump and feel like trash in another way).

It would come and go every year, but when it came back and reared its ugly head, it was just horrid. I’d feel it coming on the minute I started feeling hot. Then, I would start feeling dizzy and sweating, and I’d be like “sugar NOW”. And it always seemed to happen in the weirdest of places (name a place, it’s happened there) and usually half an hour after eating. Sometimes I was prone to getting physically sick as well, which always scared me too.

Fast forward to perhaps two years ago, and I’m having these attacks again. I tell my primary care doctor (a doctor in Tacoma I know now I would never ever entrust my life to) and he has me do a glucose test and tells me that I’m fine and over-reacting, that gastric bypass patients simply “don’t have hypoglycemia, in fact, most patients lose any sort of diabetic problems post-op”. I’m begging him to listen to me. But he refuses. In fact, he was dead wrong about my b-12 defiency and dead wrong about my anemia. It took me getting a second opinion from another doctor for that. Thankfully, I did that, but the damage was done later on when we got into a fight and I was in search of a new doctor. This would have been last summer, yes, you guessed it, the same time I was spending in the hospital listening to a screaming raving mad nutritionist telling me my labs were atrocious and I was killing myself off. Of course, I had no clue about this, because remember, I was fighting “evil doctor” about labwork.
Nice, right? Oh you bet.

I hadn’t had issues with blood sugar until last summer, when I was woken up from my nice slumber. They had been giving me insulin shots twice daily, because my blood sugar continued to be really off. I asked if I was diabetic, and they told me no, that this was just a precautionary measure. Okay. I can deal with that.

So this morning, I’m a little nauseated, but it washes over. I call Mom and she wants me to come have lunch with her and my stepdad. I go and I eat salad, and then half a turkey, cheese, bacon and tomato sandwich (and it was so good). I didn’t feel so well afterward, but I dismissed it as perhaps eating too much, and went home. Occasionally, I will tend to eat a little more than I should, and it hurts and it’s awful.

I get home, and Mom shows up here half an hour later. She’s at the door, and I feel it coming on. The hotness. The sweating. The feeling weak and dizzy. Oh no! Mom, gotta bail! I find glucose tablets and chew on one. Eaten, but it’s not doing a thing. I’ll have another one, thanks. I chomp that down, wondering how people can eat these things, but then I’m realizing that I really don’t care what it tastes like at this point as long as it has sugar in it. Still nothing. Eat one more! No wait, find glucose meter and take your blood reading now..NOW. I whip it out, screw up the first strip. Put a second strip in, had Mom jab my finger (she said my hands were deathly cold while I’m feeling like I’m sweating to death) and I dab enough blood onto the strip this time. And then I freaked. See picture of reading below.

Holy cow that’s low, and even for eating two glucose tablets. But now I have the proof. I have it. And I have an excellent doctor and nursing staff that care about me and listen to me. They’re in close contact with my surgeon, as well as my nutritionist. I consider myself lucky to have the awesome dedicated and caring people working with me like I do. By the way, this is at a military care facility. I’m sharing pictures tomorrow with my doctor, yes I am.

(Final thought….I think I learned an important lesson here, in that if you’re a wls patient, be sure to have a regular doctor who is fairly knowledgeable about wls. The weird guessing game doesn’t work very well.)

I’ve been fairly busy as of late, pushing through the pain and barf and feeling like drek to get things done around here. I’m trying to get a schedule so that I have everything completed (projects for Mom and for here as well) before I enter the hospital. After that I can just let the yard and everything go to hell for a few weeks or months. But before all that, Better Homes and Gardens, eat your heart out.

I can type that all I want, I can think that all I want, but realistically, it wouldn’t really happen without my friends. James is one of my dear friends and has been for a couple years now. It’s funny because I can’t lie to him. Even if I wanted to lie to him, he’d catch me on it instantly and say “Um, now for the truth of the matter…” He’s one of my friends where nothing gets past him. It doesn’t happen.

Knowing that, James will call me daily, to see how I am doing, to the point that if I don’t pick up the phone, oh he’ll call back repeatedly. Then he’ll start messaging me. But he’s going to get a response from me, regardless. Sounds almost stalkerish, right? No, it’s just his way of well, I guess, being evil and motivating me whether or not I want to do it. Actually, he cares, and yes, he motivates the heck out of me even when I don’t want to lift a finger. He’s like that.

This last weekend, I learned how to mow the lawn with a push mower. You know, I can take apart and put a computer back together no problemo, but you want me to do what with a power tool? Are you nuts? How this starts is that James tells me that although he’d like to be nice to me and mow, he does it all the time and it gets sort of boring. Why he bets that I could push a mower….and that if I put my mind to it I can get rid of this nonsense about being scared of power tools. See? Pure motivational moment there. That’s him. So I’m like okay, yea, show me an idea of what I’m doing and I’ll show you..and he does, and soon I have 1/3 of the yard done. I’m beet red and wheezing like Darth Vader but that part of the yard, oh boy, it looks like it needs a couple of golfing flags. Beautiful work. Thing is though, James, Manda and me all forgot that I’m allergic to grass pollens. I come in the house and I’m covered in hives and welts. Manda ran for the benadryl and James stopped my lawnmowing career right there. Although the surgeon or my doctor would be not so happy hearing I pushed anything, I think it just validates that hey, sometimes I’m prone to allowing the pain to get the better of me. (I hurt SOO bad for a day and a half after that, but hey, I mowed!) It’s like I allow the fear of pain to get the better of me, in “assuming” that I can’t do something because I know it’s going to hurt and somehow I just don’t like hurt.

Last night, Drew came over and I felt so bad. I could barely keep my eyes open to talk to him and told him I had to lay down. (The kids have always understood that if I say I need to lay down, it’s probably best that I do. I have the best children ever. I think the one guilt that I have had is that they’ve had to ride this horrible rollercoaster of medical hell with me, and they have never deserved it, because I wanted to do and go and see so much more with them. Straight up, haven’t been able to do it. These same kids though, have never EVER turned their backs on me and are always right THERE when I come out of the OR, and have at one point prayed over me just to make it through. They deserve perhaps the greatest amount of praise, and are the best kids a parent could ever wish for and be blessed with. Stupid choices they’ve made that make me curse them out, well yea, I’m just as guilty of that as a child. But their unwavering faith in me, well, it cancels out everything else pretty much.)

I laid down, worked on my main blog somewhat, played with a survey, talked to a couple of people and shut my eyes at midnight. I woke up at 6:30 am, which is med time. That means, I pretty much slept for a full night, with no interruptions, which is something I haven’t been able to do for years. Sleep is something I lack pretty much, so I try to get little naps here and there where I can. But sure enough, full night sleep. Go me! I just have to figure out what it was I did to be able to get that to happen, and remember to do it when I’m at the hospital so I actually sleep. I’m insane like that at the hospital, I won’t sleep at all and the corpsmen come in at 4 am to do blood draws or whatever and I’m staring at them. Usually they recoil in fear and jump and ask why I’m awake, but it’s funny stuff irregardless. Well, funny until I start getting crabby and whiny and know that I require sleep somewhere, somehow.

Yea, back to story now. I came in, worked on my

I’ve just had absolutely no motivation to write, or to do much of anything.  I went in to the clinic and was told by the nurse that we’re waiting until August for surgery, and the surgeon will not budge, and there’s nothing I can say to change his mind.  Great.  So I’m going to sit around in pain all the time and be miserable until August?  No, not thrilled, not in the least.  My favorite nurse who’s been there with me ever since I returned from Mississippi and is leaving the hospital (retiring) at the end of this month tells me that I need to speak with my regular doctor about pain meds until then (August).  Great.  Not doing so hot here.  Help. Please.

She changed up pain meds, and it’s finally a combination that really works, and works well.  I’m happy as can be in that respect, except that I’m just afraid of the complications of being on it for so long I develop some sort of addiction.  I don’t want to have to deal with that.  But it works.  YAY!

Still going to the massage therapist, who is seriously working my left sciatic nerve.  She bends my leg back and forth and jabs into my left buttcheek, but it’s doing so good.  The numb feelings for the most part are confined to part of my thigh, and my left foot….where it used to be much worse.

That’s about it for now.  I have good days and bad days where eating is concerned.  Still working on upping the protein, and yes, part of the infamous “list” from the nutritionist was drinking at least 1-2 protein shakes a day, but I tell you, I look at the bottles of ensure in my fridge and I want to gag.  I gag looking at it at the store.  Mom gets all excited because it’s on sale and she can buy me MORE, and I want to cry.  But I’m working hard on staying away from the crap, and making sure portion sizes are right, and if I know it’s going to be foods that will hurt traveling through my digestive tract (I can start to feel things as they move through and my digestive system makes loud horrible noises.  I had in fact, already eaten and was at my friend Scott’s house, and he heard the noises and wanted to cook lots for me.  I turned him down, much as I love the brown rice he makes, and I have to get him trained on what a portion size for me looks like compared to his.  I love him dearly, and I know he has the best of intentions, but his idea of what I can eat and my idea are two different things.  If I can get Mom to change her ways which is darn near impossible, well, I can show Scott the right way too.)

This morning, I was back at the hospital again. But what was so cool about this morning’s visit was this group they had at the quarterdeck. Their music was beautiful, and the woman who was singing had an absolutely beautiful voice. I felt bad about having to round through the quarterdeck and go catch the elevator to make my tour. I would have much rather stayed and heard her sing more, but I knew I had stuff to do before everyone left clinics.

Because it was almost noon, I decided to leave the lab draw for last. I went up to my doctor’s clinic and told them about how my b-12 prescription was wrong…and could I have it fixed? They’re awesome, and forwarded my information to the clinic nurse to get that done. While I was in the waiting area, there was another girl waiting to see the doctor. She was talking about how she had just had a baby, and that was cool. However, somehow the subject of me having gastric bypass comes up, and she says, oh I had that too, back in 2005. How are you doing with yours? All I could manage to say was “horribly”. I felt sorta bad about that, because I wanted to elaborate on “horribly”. But it’s all good, I mean, if she really wanted to know, I live at the hospital and I’m sure our paths will cross again.

But she brought up a subject that I have real strong opinions on, and that’s being pregnant after having gastric bypass. Yes, have tons of friends who have had wls done for the sole intent of being able to get pregnant (losing weight means healthier and better pregnancy, because you’re dropping co-morbidities that can affect either the ability to get pregnant or allow you to carry a baby safely) Here’s where I draw my line in the sand on this, and I really do.

I have a friend who had a lap-band done, and she’s now the proud parent of two beautiful babies. Note here I said lap-band. With a lap-band, you’re not running into potential malabsorption issues, but instead, just smaller capacity to eat with. I call it “the lesser of two evils”. But if you’ve had the full on open or lap RNY, I’m not in the crowd that advocates pregnancy after that. There’s that pesky malabsorption thing going on, and then you’re trying to eat/get nutrients for two. I think, if anything, it’s very very risky. But on the other hand, I can understand the need, the desire to have children. I’m incredibly blessed to have two beautiful children of my own. So yea, I’ll shut up now, but that’s my thought.

I leave that clinic and go to the surgeon’s clinic, where I love their staff as well. I ask to see the surgeon again, because we need to have our powwow where we discuss which person in the equasion said what, and I want him to look at some troubling spots in my abdominal area. This appointment is for next week, so I’ll keep everyone updated on that.

Last stop, lab, where I go and have blood drawn for yet another b-12 lab. Am I complaining? Not in the least. Please, take from me as much blood as you’d like in order to tell me that my labs are improving. I’m working fairly hard at improvement, I am. I want surgery done, over with, behind me, and live a life where it’s a little less, no, a lot less painful. It would be great that way. I find that sometimes, in the delay process, and you know, I get why there’s a delay process, but I find sometimes I focus on past negative experiences. Like waking up in the OR while they’re still working on me, or that super nasty feeling of being intubated while awake, and feeling like you’re choking, but you’re really not. I find myself, rather, catch myself thinking of the negative parts of my surgical experiences that I’d rather not be thinking about. That bothers me. I know I’m in good hands, incredibly good hands, but I despise thinking of the negatives in situations.

I’ve been there before, actually. It bothered me just the same back then as it does me now. You see, before I had my gastric bypass surgery, I would visit recent post-op patients, to give them support, to see how they were doing, and to get an idea as to what I should expect. One day, I’m walking wards and I’m fixin to go to ICU to see more patients. I was stopped and asked, begged, pleaded not to go. (yes, this is one of those…and now for the rest of the story moments) You see, the patient I was going to go see, well, her family was in the process of taking her off life support. Imagine that sort of devastation that her family was going through at that point in time. But here’s the even more tragic part of it all, they had no clue that she had undergone RNY, because she had not told them. I understood her reasoning, I do, and it’s something that I respect to this day. I went home and I cried my eyes out, cried for a good hour because I knew that she was trying to achieve a better life, and that cost was so tremendous, not only to her, but her family as well, who were out of the loop on the whole thing.

And so sets in the “Am I doing the right thing?” sort of questions. Is this a risk that I’m really wanting to take? I’m really scared….scared that perhaps I too will end up like that, for a plethora of different reasons. For a couple days, I honestly mulled it all over…whether I should just throw away the idea of having surgery that’s irreversible, that can have either good or bad results, that forever will change my life. Obviously, you know the path I chose, but here’s why. My thought was, you know, as big and as laden with co-morbidities as I was, either way my odds were looking pretty bad. I made the decision to go ahead because, like her, I wanted a better healthier life too. I sort of liken it to “darned if you do, darned if you don’t”.

Each and every time I’ve gone in for surgery, oh I have been scared, scared, scared. But if I allow that fear to consume me, I don’t think I’m doing myself any favors, any at all. I trust and believe that my surgeon is going to do everything they can within their power to make sure I get through. I believe that they’re fighting their butts off for me. And that’s what I remember and hold dear to me as the nurse calls my name, and we walk down the hall to pre/post op. I’ve had to endure through many different things medically that believe me, I’d rather have not have either done or been in that position at said time. And that’s where I put in the power of me, the belief that yes, I’m a strong person and I can do this.

Oh I believe I’m done for the evening. Yea. As it stands right now, we’re still in a holding pattern for the next surgery. More will follow.

I’m still working on my wordpress upgrade. I actually downloaded it today, unzipped it, and well, I need to get off my butt and finish the job. However, this morning I was in a writing mood. I wrote my original surgeon, the one who did my gastric bypass, and filled him in on everything that had been happening with me, and why I vowed never to step foot in Wilford Hall (Wilford Hall Medical Center, San Antonio) even if I was dying and it was the only place I could go. Reasoning is, and you might find this weird, but here goes. A few years ago, I had been gaining weight, in a big way. Yes, this was post-operatively. I went from 245 to 326. Really, this should not happen unless (a) there’s something wrong with your gastric bypass or (b) you’re being non-compliant and eating crap. I walked into the clinic there, and talked to the nurse who was head of the bariatric program there, and told her what was going on. I was really concerned. I’d love to chalk all this up to being non-compliant and stuffing my face full of Twinkies and HoHos and all that good stuff. However, I am one of the few lucky ones who, even at seven years out, dump magnificently (dumping would be when your intestinal tract gets too much processed sugar, which, hi, you don’t have a stomach in the equasion any longer to break it down…and your tract goes haywire making you violently ill. It’s not a good feeling, not in the least, and one that I’d rather not visit) and at the time, I dumped then too. It’s not limited to sugar for me either. Potatoes, pasta and rice are also vicious creatures to me. Most breads if done in excess can be bad for me as well. I didn’t have a chance to explain any of this to the nurse. She immediately decided, minus testing, minus labs, that I was non-compliant and that she wasn’t going to help me. I walked right out of the clinic, vowing never to return. I won’t work with people like that. If you don’t wish to believe me, if you don’t wish to help me, and if you’re not listening to me, I don’t have time for you. I walked. Goodbye to you.

I get to Mississippi, and they have a bariatric program there. Cool..lemme have a shot with these fine people. The surgeon there, who ironically enough was trained by my original surgeon, took one look at me and said “um, you have hernias” (such a recurring theme I tell you) and “why are you gaining weight? we need to do tests on you” I spent one morning sucking down bottle after bottle of barium. I felt like crap. I ached. I was not allowed to go to the bathroom (they didn’t want me losing any barium). They took all sorts of pictures of me, but couldn’t determine where the barium was going. So I drank more. Now, for someone who has a 2 cm pouch, and is being told to drink tons of heavy barium drink, this is so not good. I’m walking up and down the halls in pain, with an airman holding my hand and telling me it’s going to be okay. No it’s not dude. This sucks. The radiologist shows up and asks me to drink some more barium. Dude, no I can’t. I just can’t. No, I drink more, and he shrieks in horror. He tells me that my stoma is three times the size that it should be, that all the barium I’ve been drinking down is stuck there. Great. I want to fall over, I feel the sickness coming on (I was actually dumping because there was just too much crap in my system) and he orders people around to get me fans, and to have me lay down. Oh you know I wanted to take the pictures from that barium swallow and personally drive back to Texas, and have miss witch bariatric nurse take a good gander at them, and personally apologize to me…and I told the surgeon in Mississippi that. He told me it wasn’t worth my time or fight, that I needed to focus on taking care of me.

I guess I still hold a bit of resentment, because, had that nurse actually done her job and taken her time to run labs, and believe me, I think that some of my current medical issues could have been averted. You can’t really cry over spilt milk, but I’ll tell you what the whole experience has taught me. Sometimes, you have to really fight the system to get someone to hear you, to listen, and to get something done. And sometimes, you need to stand up and call it as you see it. I think it was a case of “burnout” on her part, and at times, I can totally understand it. I’ve sat at support meetings where post-ops talk about eating tons of candy, or marshmallows, or pizza and ice cream, or milkshakes…and that’s what they eat. They sit and wonder why they’re gaining weight. Woah, wait, gastric bypass is in no way a free ticket to go and eat whatever you want. You mean to tell me you just had your entire digestive system rerouted to go back to your old crappy eating habits? But it’s amazing the number of people I meet who do just that. It’s about accountability and responsibility, and being able to stand up and say, hey, I need to be on the right track and doing the right things. By no means am I perfect. Every now and again, I’ll get an urge to eat crap. But remember where I said I still dump? Oh yea, I eat crap and I pay for it….pay for it dearly. So generally I won’t do it.

How did I get from what, 326 back to 260? It’s a matter of portion control, knowing that since my bypass has issues I need to be more vigilant than before in ensuring that I’m eating the right things, and in the right amounts, and drinking lots of fluids. I think much of it has to do with attitude as well. After your first six months out from wls, weight is not going to come off like it did before. I think that I really had to hold much faith and belief in me, and that I need to get it all back into shape. Okay, so yes, perhaps I do get a bit “scale-obsessive”. I’ll weigh myself almost daily, just to see where I stand weight wise. Before surgery, I wouldn’t get near a scale. Now, oh yes, I’m all about watching the scale, being more aware of things that can or would cause me to gain a few pounds. Weird how that works, but entirely true.

Don’t know if the email to the surgeon will help any, but if there’s some way to go back and have my information be useful in their statistics, then I know I’ve done some good somewhere.

What’s up for next week? I go in for another draw to watch my b-12. I tried to refill my b-12 shots, but the system wouldn’t allow me to do so. So I need to get with my regular doctor and tell her we need to fix this. I need to make an appointment with the surgeon to follow up with him and tell him that there’s too much pain involved in my daily life, and that I don’t think that “waiting for summer” like the nutritionist suggested is such a great idea.

Oh and yes, another thing that I must make time for is to hang out at the Y and get some exercise in. I went and had some massage done to my lower back and my legs. Interesting thing, as I explained to the massage therapist about the issues with my left leg and foot…so she has me lying on my tummy which is rather uncomfortable, but hey, I’ll do it. She starts rubbing across my lower back, and then pulls up my left leg and stretches it back and forth. Woah, I can feel all this, and it’s not feeling so wonderful, but I can feel it. Then she moves across to my right leg and does the same thing and holy cow, pain pain pain. Then she starts hitting pressure points across my backside, and she asks me if I’ve ever dealt with sciatica before. Ah yes, indeed I have. When I was in my first six months out post operatively, I would have horrid sciatica attacks that would leave me unable to move for minutes on end. I remember getting up at work, thinking I was going to go on break or whatever, and the pain be so bad that I literally could not move. I stood at my workstation and had tears streaming down my face, while co-workers were like “woah, Johanna, what’s going on?” I tell the massage therapist this, and she tells me that she suspects that it’s come back, and that’s what is bothering not just my left leg, but my right leg as well. She suggests that some stretching exercises involving my legs might help as well. It was a highly informative visit, that’s for sure. And I felt tons better upon leaving. Only bad part, the pain in the left foot is back again with a vengeance. Drat. That is okay, I have another appointment with her next week, and she’ll work her magic again.

That’s about it for the time being. I have my work cut out for me next week, yes indeed I do.

I’ve been really bad about updating much of anything, and I wake up to lots of questions from people, as to if I’m alright or whatever. On a social networking site I was on that I won’t even mention because it’s that trashy (although I have found some cool people there) some guy sends me a message and asks me what time it is. I kid you not. (Oh by the way, this is the joke post that cuts up the monotony of hearing how much pain I’m in and such). So dude asks me what time it is. I couldn’t resist. “Um, don’t you know what time it is?” I reply. He says, sure I do, and he was in Turkey or one of those countries out there, so I’m guessing he wanted to know what time it was in my time zone. (For reference sake, I live in GMT -8. Go me)

But no, I have to be a smarty pants about it. People ask me the weirdest things. All I could think of was Morris Day and the Time. I’m laughing hysterically about this. So to answer his question, I shoot him a link to the wikipedia entry for Morris Day and the Time. He’s never heard of them. There’s nothing more hysterical than some dude wearing a shiny suit yelling “What time is it?!@#$@$” Seriously.

Then I started to actually read about Morris Day and the Time. Interesting, they were a project of Prince’s, but could never quite get along, and went through quite a few personnel changes. Yea, you saw them in Purple Rain, but that was like version three or four of them. Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis went off to become famous producers, and they do a lot of work with Janet Jackson. So I’m listening to some Janet Jackson and yea, it does sorta have that “MD and the Time” sound to it. I’m telling you, wikipedia has some great stuff in it. However, I’m still of the firm belief that *I* should have an entry before stupid Tim Eyman does. I lead a much more interesting life than he does. That’s right Timmy, I’m not a personal force to piss off everyone in Washington state. Well, not yet, but if I piss off TIMMEH, well, I’ve done great work.

Now I need to be moving along and update my version of WP. I’ve only been reminded a few times about this. hohoho. Then I’ll return and tell you how I’m doing. In the meanwhile, please enjoy finding out what time it is.

I have good days, and then I have bad days. What I mean is, there are days I wake up (I always wake up and think of how I’m blessed today) and either I’m in pain and feel like crud, or I’m mostly functional. The pain days have been outweighing the functional days for the past week. And then there’s the nausea, where I smell or look at food and I’m like, “Oh nonono!” None of this is really productive towards my surgery goal, it really isn’t. But it happens, nonetheless, and I fight it best I can.

I think my finest example was two nights ago. I was hot, miserable, cranky, in a large bit of pain, and I just felt like giving up. Not giving up as in doing something drastic that might injure myself but more along the lines of just resigning to myself that I’m going to live in an eternal life of hospital visits, tons of pain, and tons of surgery. I used to tell the husband all the time, “You know, I’m not even an asset to you anymore, I’m just your liability” To him, and how our relationship stands, I still truly believe that. But when I go back and I start thinking in terms of me, I see myself slipping into that “liability” status and I just can’t have it. It’s not productive to getting healthier, and it’s not healthy in the respect that I have to believe that there is hope out there for me, and that this will get better. Pain sucks, it really does, and when it’s a constant pain, and you start adopting the attitude that the pain is associated with your body saying “yoh, I quit” and you start losing belief in yourself it’s just one downhill spiral. Admittedly, I was so there the other night. Many parts of my body hurt, and it was overwhelming to me, and what can I do? That’s right, I can realize the moment for what it is, which was a combination of (I want to say) self-pity and depression and defeat, and say hey, no, what am I doing? I need to snap out of this funk, I really do. So I laid back on my bed, and I went back into what I’m thankful for…how much blessing has come into my life, and I drifted off to sleep. Much better.

I did go to see the nutritionist the other day. She had a good looksee over my labs, and I’m doing pretty good. They are, for the most part, where they should be. Am I thankful for this? Oh you bet. But then she says, “Oh well I’m still not clearing you for surgery yet, maybe by summer.” This I have problems with. Apparently she hasn’t been clued in to the damage that the current condition is causing me. So I whip up my shirt, and I show her. She got the “deer in the headlights” look. But she still insists that I wait until summer. At first, I was irate and just well, mad. I felt as if no one was getting the big picture, that I can’t be waiting around until summer because my body is giving out on me. I don’t want to be living on painkillers and tylenol forever and a day. I want to be better, stronger, healthier. But, looking at the big picture, this is only temporary. Everyone at the hospital is just looking out for me really. But don’t get me wrong, I’m calling the surgeon and I’m asking for some sort of pain management referral if I have to wait until summer. I am.

We talked about my diet and I told her that I’ve been diligently working on more protein. Then I tell her about how my surgeon and me had our disagreement on red meats. Oh how I love the red meats (well no, not right now, because that’s what got me sick as all get out the other day and the sight of cows just sickens me at the moment) usually. Chicken to me tastes gross and rubbery and nasty, and pretty much always has since having surgery. It doesn’t matter what you do to it, it just yuk. That’s the best way to describe it. Every now and again, I’ll get a craving for chicken, and I’ll eat chicken then, but other than that, no way, no how am I going to eat chicken. Not going to happen. I like turkey, and if you look at most nutritional sheets, you’ll see that out of all the meats, turkey is the one with the highest protein count. Thank heavens for that. Sometimes I’ll eat pork, but then again, I run into the “chew it forever” thing and the issue of dryness. Ick. So the nutritionist asks what I think of fish and seafood. Oh yes, love fish and seafood. I can do that. Her suggestion to me was to cut back on the red meats (like the surgeon did, but I’ll get to his explanation in a minute) and perhaps lean more toward white meats and seafood.

So why is my surgeon saying to me “Johanna, cut back on the red meats…”? His thought, and I’ve heard this from many other surgeons and nutritionists as well, is that red meat takes longer to digest. It stays in your system longer. I think perhaps one of the grossest stories I’ve ever heard, and this came straight from a surgeon, is this. To give you a little history on what he said, back in the day, many pre-ops right before surgery had their “big meal”. By that, I mean that right before surgery, you’d go out and get pretty much anything you just know you’re not going to be eating after surgery, and eat it. Oh I did it, I’ll be the first to admit. I had steak, salad and cheesecake bites. I ended up eating perhaps 1/2 of the steak, a few bites of salad, and one cheesecake bite. For some reason, I could taste tons of cinnamon in the cheesecake bites and it went to the kids. If you’re fixin to have gastric bypass done, I don’t advise this. Do not go down this route. Eat as healthy as you can before surgery, and skip that “big meal” thing. Here’s why, and I still gross out even thinking about this story.

I was at a gastric bypass support group, and one of the surgeons gets right up and says, “No more big meals before surgery. No more” He went on to explain that with every gastric bypass he performed, he could see exactly what you ate, and would be more than happy to share that with you. I don’t know, the thought of someone poking around in there, and having to weed through stomach contents and stuff in the intestinal tract, just made me violently ill. Many in our group gasped. Truth be told, when it comes down to it, you cannot lie to a bariatric surgeon. It just doesn’t work. Thinking about this makes me realize the good in my surgery where hot surgeon says “oh you WILL do the saline laxative” before surgery, and although I swore up and down I’d never forgive him for that, well, I can see why now. I’ll forgive him. But oh how awful it was. Main thought here, don’t do that big meal thing. If you’re up for gastric bypass, and people are still suggesting and encouraging this, just say no.

In the end of my great meeting with the nutritionist, she still won’t clear me for surgery, I’m still in pain, eating on some days is a real challenge. So I appealed to Mom in the meanwhile back at the ranch. Am I going to sic “evil Momzilla” on the medical community? No. Pretty much everyone and anyone is scared of Mom at the hospital. heh. Mom is trying to get in and get some exercise plan going on. She wants to do water aerobics, but, I pretty much cannot go in the pool right now. So she’s getting Manda a membership and going to drag Manda along. Manda needs exercise and likes water, so this is a good plan. I ask Mom if she’d consider throwing me on the membership as well, and at least I can walk and do laps while they’re swimming, or do the stair climber thing I like, or do a treadmill (never been on one, sounds like fun to try). Mom said that would be really good, so we’re going in on Wednesday to get memberships, and look around. Even though I weigh in the neighborhood of 265-270, perhaps I can still see that 245 (my lowest weight ever post-operatively) and a little less if I work hard at it. Wouldn’t that be something if I could see a better weight than 245 and be healthy and strong? I know I’d amaze a few people, including myself.

It’s just really been an off couple of weeks, what with Manda being super sick, and then me being nauseated or in pain for much of the time. I need to get writing on my regular blog, because there’s so much fodder going on that I need to write about. Oh yes.

This morning it was back to the hospital for labs to be drawn for protein, vitamin D, and b-12. I get there, the receptionist gets my paperwork, and it’s off for the blood draw. On a whim, I ask the lab tech what the blood draws are for. She lists everything *but* the b-12. Oh no, this will not work. I tell her that I am supposed to have one for b-12, and she suggests that I run back up to internal medicine and ask for them to put the lab into the system, and have them call the lab to let them know it’s there. Off to Internal Medicine I go.

I get there and start explaining myself to the receptionist. So she asks me, “Well, why would anyone need a b-12 test?” I explain to her that mine is seriously low, and she can verify it with my nurse. My nurse who pops her head around the corner and says “Hi Johanna” As it turns out, the lab was in the system, but not to be drawn until after April 1. That won’t work because the nutritionist wants to see numbers now, not later. The lab is put into the system, but the nurse asks me to explain to the nutritionist that the numbers might be off because I just gave myself a shot. The true reading won’t be available until I give myself the third shot and then go back in for yet another draw for b-12. The nurse explains that because my b-12 was so low, with three shots in that time, and then the labs, they can get a better idea of how well I’m absorbing it and how to readjust my schedule of giving shots.

It’s weird to me, working so hard and for so long to get everyone on the same page with me….surgeon to nutritionist to primary care doctor. They’re all on board, they know my list of goals I need to meet (well, the surgeon enacted them, he better know) and have plans existing to make them happen. I also have to do my end of the legwork, and do my part to make it happen as well, as far as keeping strict tabs on my diet, taking vitamins and supplements, giving myself shots, and these labs. Oh, and showing up for appointments. The group always likes it when I’m present for appointments. I have another appointment with the nutritionist on Monday, and interesting thing of that is, is that I literally take ten deep breaths in the waiting area before walking in with her. I know that yes, for the most part, arguing isn’t good and gets you nowhere. We’ve argued lots over many subjects. My new philosophy on this is, okay, I don’t like what you’re saying, and this is what I believe to be true. Show me your facts, your figures, what you’re basing your information upon, and I might be able to be swayed. And sure, I’ll be happy to throw out facts, figures and information to show you my information isn’t based on speculation alone. Which reminds me, I need to pull my surgical records to show her my RNY is proximal and not distal. She swears that I am distal because I dump still, at seven years out…and that I malabsorb too much. Proximal would be the lower amount of what’s bypassed to make your new digestive system. Where/when I had my surgery, you simply were not provided with options. You had it open and you had it proximal, no matter what your size/weight was. It’s amazing to me sitting in a room with post-op patients who “claim” they could walk right in and tell the surgeon how they’re having surgery…as in “oh yes, I’m having mine done lap, and I don’t want scars” and the like. Truth be told, in some situations now, you can *request* it done lap (as in laparoscopic) but when the time comes down to it, and if the surgeon runs into complications, your choice doesn’t become your choice anymore. As for scars, here’s my thought on that. I look like a veritable road map of scars. But each and every scar that I have, for the most part, they’re faded, but you can see them if you look hard. Each of them represent another time I walked in and I walked out, feeling confident that I wouldn’t be back. Guess what? I was back, a few times over…but this is my destiny really. In the end, it makes me stronger and it makes me wiser as well.

Where was I really going with this entry? Oh yes, so Manda and I are riding down the elevator and get to the first floor. I hear this voice, and it sounds so familiar to me…but I look at the man and he doesn’t look that familiar. Who is he? And why does the voice sound so familiar? He turns and says “I KNOW YOU” and it turns out to be one of the naval chaplains. I spent all last summer with him, along with the other chaplain. They would come daily, whether or not I was in ICU or surgical ward, and spend an hour with me each day talking about spirituality and faith…and I would look forward to that hour every day. I would because it was my hour of encouragement through some really dark days.

I want to backtrack really quick and tell you how I met him. I’m in ICU, and it’s a couple days after I was taken off the ventilator. I see this group of lieutenants directly in front of my room talking. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and I’m so out of it that even if I could, I’m not sure I’d understand them, but they’re there. First thought, well maybe John is coming. Perhaps he’s come to his senses and him/his command know how sick I am, and how he needs to pick up the slack for the kids and do the right thing. Of course not. They walk in and hold my hand and explain that they’re with “pastoral care” and have been with me every day, and would like to spend more time with me. You bet. I’m a strong believer in faith having that ability to keep you going, keep you in tune with the world around you, and keeping you strong when times are going rough. Times were really rough back then.

Every day one of them would come in, and we’d talk, and they’d ask how I was progressing. I’d tell them, and they’d ask about my attitude and how I thought that I could make a difference. There were days that I wanted to make my difference under the covers sleeping the day away. But no, they too were part of my cheerleader team telling me that I could do it, and I could make things better, but if I wanted to make them better. In essence, I have to believe to achieve. Absolutely right, and something I’ve held onto for many years. I think it’s when things are going super wrong, that you tend to stray and lose focus of what’s right and what works for you.

Great group that they are, the navy chaplains. I love them dearly, and I let the man know that I’ll be back, and he said that he’ll be looking for me. How blessed I am, to spend so much time at NH Bremerton, and have so many people care about me and my well being like that.