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Last night I FINALLY slept horizontally for the first time. Up until now, I've been sleeping nearly sitting up against a wedge of five bed pillows.  It wasn't bad sleeping that way, but I missed being able to sleep on my side.  When I laid down on my side last night, I did feel a slight tugging on the inside, but I was so exhausted, I just didn't care.

Beware the ides of March.  Also beware my behind.  

I'm now 9 days postop of a lap RNY. Over the past 5 days, I've had THE worst, rankest, foulest, unspeakable, unfathomable farts. It's mind boggling. I've NEVER experienced gas this disgusting before. These are farts of the caliber that you'd describe as a "wake," such as "the wake of Hurricane Katrina" farts. The gas reminds me of the explosion of the Hindenburg.   
 

They are rancid, and lingering. Decent folk choke. Even *I* can't stand being with me. I thought that after a day or two, they'd dissipate, but they haven't, and my cats are giving me very dirty looks in the middle of the night as they head off to sleep elsewhere. 
 

How long will these neuron-killing, eye-watering, turbo farts last? I'm concerned about being run out of town, chased by people carrying torches and matches to light as they are caught downwind of me.

For the record, I'm still on a liquid postop diet, consisting of Optimum Nutrition protein shakes made with milk, and I'm also eating diet jello, diet pudding, diet yogurt, apple juice, white grape juice, broth, and water. I thought that maybe the natural cultures of the yogurt would help things, but I am apparently mistaken. 

Over the past four days, I've lost 17 pounds.  I think I've farted my way thinner.  
 

Today I walked a mile and a half for a cup of decaf, and then walked back home. Three miles round trip. Not too bad!

And having not had any "real" food in a while, I can tell you that my tastebuds have a heightened sense to them. (So does my sense of smell!) I swear, tasting that broth, I could actually *taste* the pea pods, the chicken, the carrots, and everything that had steeped for so long. It was like manna from heaven to me.

Yes, my gut still hurts from the surgery. I get spasms that take my breath away. I have ongoing aches and soreness that I can only liken to having once been kicked in the gut by a horse. BUT I am lightyears better today than I was on Thursday last week. And I expect that I will continue to improve daily.

What's just as exciting is seeing the scale change. Before surgery, I ate like there was no tomorrow (and I don't regret it one bit!), but I left the hospital several pounds heavier than when I went in. The IV fluids that they pumped me full of made me so heavy and swollen that I couldn't put on my rings until today. Well, lemme tell you, the scale finally bears witness to the loss of the water weight. I lost 5 pounds yesterday and two pounds the day before. I know it's a terrible pun, but I've got a sh*t-eating grin on my face all day long, like the cat that ate the canary.

On Thursday last week, one of my first graders gave me a letter to give to my surgeon: “Dear Dr. I hope you do a good job to my teacher because I love her.” I nearly burst into tears when I read it. I hugged that child, thanked him repeatedly, and told him I loved him, too.

Before surgery on Monday, I gave that letter to my surgeon. I wanted him to know I’m not just another slab of meat. I’m somebody’s teacher and I am important to a little boy named Adrian.

Now onto the rest of what’s happened:

The anesthesiologist, named Dr. Ho, was a very sweet man. In fact, everyone at the hospital was really very kind and supportive. My blood sugar was too high, but they gave me two doses of insulin preoperatively, and I went into surgery on time. When I came to, I remember being groggy and in pain, with my best friend Melody sitting at the foot of my bed, talking to my mother. I remember Melody holding my hand and stroking my hair before I passed out again.

I was up and walking to the nurse’s station about 3 hours later. I knew it was important to get moving—I’m so susceptible to pneumonia any given day of the week, that I didn’t want to tempt the fates and make my recovery any more difficult than it would already be.

Day Two, showed some improvement, but Day Three was pure unadulterated hell. I was nauseous constantly and in dire pain. My nurse was a bit of a boob, though. It took two hours for her to bring me the pain meds and anti-nausea meds. She just forgot about them. And if it weren’t for my brother being proactive on my behalf, I probably would have had to wait until the shift change to get help. This nurse had about two neurons, and only one was firing properly. In short, she was a very dippy broad.

There was terrible pain in my left calf, so they did a Doppler study to make sure there were no clots. The Doppler test came back negative, so I was discharged yesterday (Thursday). Today, I am still VERY sore. My left side feels like it’s gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson, my back aches constantly, I get occasional spasms in my abdomen, and I generally feel lousy. I hurt all over.

I’ve been sipping water and other liquids, taking in protein, and walking around the house a lot. Today, my brother took me to Target to go shopping. I was pretty exhausted and needed a nap afterwards. But still, it was nice to see a change of scene.

Now onto some random thoughts:

--Belching is a new foray into excruciating pain.

--Crapping has become something very surreal and weird.

--Carnation Instant Breakfast is my friend.

--I am grateful that my surgeon knows how to do the mechanics of his job and that the HMO chose someone skilled and knowledgeable.

--I’m DAMNED grateful that the HMO picked up the tab.

My surgery is Monday morning. Up until now, I've been excited to the point of euphoria. Suddenly, reality hit me today. Now I'm kind of sitting in shock. Tomorrow I do nothing but liquids and bowel prep and all of a sudden I realize that I'm about to be sliced open and have parts cut up and shifted around. What the hell am I doing?!

Cerebrally, I know that this is important--I'll be rid of the diabetes once and for all. I'm intelligent enough to realize that this surgery is a GOOD thing. But my knees are turning into jelly and I'm fighting every urge to hop the first flight out of LAX to go hide in a third world nation somewhere.

I guess maybe this is happening because I've never done elective surgery before, much less anything so severe and radical. Any prior surgeries have been emergency and I haven't had any choice in the matter. But I'm letting someone cut into a well functioning (albeit diabetic) body, and I'm about to be sliced and diced, and I'm getting jittery. As I type this, I'm shivering.

I'm sure that this range of emotions is "normal." I know that literally tens of thousands of people have undergone this procedure and come out on the other side blissfully happy with their decision. I just wish it was all over already. My head is pretty screwed up right now with shock and fear.

Y'know, months from now, I'll probably be embarrassed that I even wrote this all down, and I'll joke about what a wuss I am. An oversized baby looking to run and hide.

With any luck, the next day and a half will pass quickly, and the IV drugs will be swift and potent. Until then, I'll just watch the clock tick as I nervously wait.

I bid a fond farewell to most of the restaurants in Southern California, and I hope that my WLS doesn't send a few of them spiraling into financial ruin.

I prayed about figures like Barbara Eden and Elizabeth Montgomery for several years, and then finally gave up praying. Sure, there were times in my life, albeit short ones, when I was thin. When I was twelve, I was very pretty. But thin never lasted for long.

By the time I was 14, I had a drop stomach and varicose veins. I shrugged it off out of a defense mechanism and because my focus needed to be elsewhere. My parents were always so deathly ill, and so often in the hospital with life-threatening conditions, that my own physical appearance and health became secondary. My praying for my own beauty was replaced with frequent prayers for their mere survival. I started being a caregiver at age 15.

All my life has been a journey from one medical crisis to another for my parents. I cannot remember any period longer than two months without one of them being deathly ill. My parents are still in and out of hospitals, in life threatening conditions, almost every month. I always run to be by their side and to do whatever I can to help them recover.

Now I am 42, and little has changed. Sure, I dieted. I fasted. I took diet pills. I took thyroid pills. I took protein shake fasts. I tried hypnosis. I joined gyms. I did everything imaginable short of wiring my jaw shut. But the only thing that changed was my age. I had partial successes, of course, but they were short-lived. The yo-yo syndrome is all too familiar to those of us on this website.

My weight has affected my mind as well as my body. Twice, I married and both times I married at my highest weight. My sick mind rationalized that if the men married me at my highest weight, they must truly love me. Obviously, that didn't prove to be the case.

Now that I am again single and now middle aged, it is time to take time for me. Three decades of caring for my parents did little more than maintain their status; they've never improved. I need to take care of me before I become deathly ill as well, because I have no children to look after me in my old age.

My surgery is two weeks from tomorrow. I am never going to look like Barbara Eden, Marlo Thomas or Agent 99. But I will be rid of my diabetes and have a decent quality of life, finally. I no longer pray for beauty. Now I pray for health.