3 Week Update

So I'm a little late posting this one, but I wanted to get it out there. Kindly excuse the excessive amount of bra in the picture, but it's harder than it looks to take a picture of your own stomach.

I saw the surgeon on Friday for my big three week check-in. A little less than three weeks from now and I'll have my first fill. I've got to say, I can't wait. The hunger is obviously back, and I've been testing the waters for over a week now on different types of food-all with great sucess. I'm back to being able to eat what I want, just in far smaller quantities. I'm not sure if it's truly a good sign or bad that I haven't had a problem with anything.

Restriction is a funny thing. It feels like nausea and fullness for me after about a cup and a half or less of food, to the extent where I feel sick like I would have after a binge. Anyway, back to the fill. I'm a little nervous about a long needle getting stuck into my belly to fill me up with saline, but being the baby that I am, I've requested some lidocaine when the time comes, and I'm sure that will help along with maybe some valium. We'll see. If I can manage blood draws these days without tranquilizers I'm going to try and manage the fills that way.

So, after my appointment, I strolled around 34th and tried on dresses and fun stuff at GAP, Banana Republic and Ann Taylor. It's not that I've lost so much weight that I was grazing around the size 4/6 section, but the usual sizes fit so much better, looser than before surgery. That little bit of weight actually made a difference, and I managed some 14's at Banana without stuffing myself into them. What was equally, or ok, perhaps more encouraging is that I walked out without buying a thing, and I didn't feel even a twinge of guilt or sadness about it. The adrenaline high I got from trying pretty things on without wanting to rip out my credit card was exhilerating. (Though I will admit, I am still coveting that Kate Spade messenger bag I've wanted for a few weeks- I just can't fathom another $250 for a bag right now when I've got probably 15 or 20 bags at home)

I think I'm most excited about being able to exercise in another few days. I was really surprised when the doctor said I could return to the gym after week four, instead of week six like I was expecting. As far as replacement compulsions go, one could do a lot worse than the gym, so I'm hoping motivation and lots of workouts replace the food.

I'm healing well...things are improving little by little. My only real fear at the moment is potential hair loss. My hair is fine and I don't have a ton of it as it is, so the thought of it coming out in clumps is terrifying. I've read on the message boards that this tends to happen to some anywhere from 4 to 6 months out. They don't know why exactly, but it has some correlation with metabolism shift and zinc levels. My hair is finally starting to grow out again. It's down to my shoulders now. The thought of having to wear a wig, or cover my head with a scarf and have people who don't know about the surgery thinking I'm a cancer patient or something is mortifying to say the least. The doctor said not to worry about more supplements for now, but I can't help obsessing a little.

Enough obsession for now though...more later.

Somewhere in Minnesota, Keillor is hitting his head and waxing poetic

I'm fairly particular about who and what I take the time to read. I don't like wasting precious minutes of the day with trite drivel, and after all, who does? I may take just as long if not longer to find a book that fascinates me than it takes to read it. But when I find something I like, I'm loyal. Online, this means I spend a few minutes out of each day (or 30 or 60) to read a blog from a bloke in Wisconsin I'm fond of, and who's particularly, painfully talented (except when he writes about football, or darts, or golf- none of which do I have a penchant for), and scanning the articles in Salon, particularly Cary Tennis' advice column for the scandalous and lashing responses of the ironically superiorly moral left set, and once a week Garrison Keillor, another midwesterner (WTF, really?) who usually has insightful and politically paralleled opinions to my own.

Today though, Keillor talked about repeatedly hitting his head on a particularly low-lying ceiling beam of his "1911" home, his daughter's amusement of the incident, and the irony of how grateful he was to feel the pain of that THUMP, reminding him he's alive, and blah blah blah. An interesting article, but I got more from the latter half characterization of his late-journalism professor (whom the bump reminded him of) who would write "B.S.," and "Oh, for God's sake" on his submitted papers. HAH, Mr. Keillor. But sitting down to take in the "full benefit of the experience" of fwacking yourself on the noggin. Oh, for God's sake. There are far greater things to remind you of the human experience- what to appreciate and what to stop taking for granted. I stepped on a teeny tiny shard of glass last night in the garbage shoot area, a leftover remnant from the huge framed art that fell and broke in my apartment, and that I'd been so careful to ensure was bagged up and labeled "GLASS," not thrown haphazardly down the shoot, so as not to hurt my fellow residents or the porters in the building. Who ends up with a bleeding foot? Moi. There's irony, but I didn't have an existential moment over the damn thing.

To each his own.

Top 20

I once did a top 20 list on Salon.com. A list of 10 things I most despised about being fat, and ten things that felt more like advantages, or maybe positives. I think an example was that our hugs were softer. As I recall, I got slammed quite a bit by the skinnier folk by what they saw as putting the thinner set down when all I was trying to do was make the thicker set feel less like crap about how they saw themselves.

I spent the bulk of my morning (no, I don't have a lot to do today) reading the anecdotes on lapbandtalk.com of sad, funny, and embarrassing things that happened to others in their fatter days (the vast majority were very, very sad). The sad things that have happened to me are so sad, so shameful, that I'm not quite ready to write about them. Mostly thoughtless, cruel comments by ignorant people. I thought instead I'd post my own list of things I loathe about fatness/things I look forward to as I continue to drop (around 20 pounds now and almost 3 weeks out, thank you!). To give some perspective, I started this list sitting in my doctor's office shortly before my first appointment.

In no particular order:

1. Being able to cross my legs when I sit down.
2. Sitting down to a meal out without the distinct impression everyone is paying attention to what I'm ordering.
3. Going to the theatre/movies/sitting on a plane and not having my arms take up both armrests or having to hug myself the entire ride/show.
4. NEVER having to shop Lane Bryant again.
5. Not worrying that diabetes is just around the corner.
6. Not having to pre-scan a crowded NYC restaurant with my eyes to see how I can best squeeze my way through without drawing attention to myself, or worse, the dread of where the waiter will seat us and will I be able to fit without looking ridiculous.
7. Not going to a bar with the pre-accepted shame that there is no one in the room that will want to look at me, let alone want to meet me.
8. Not feeling like my girlfriends know there is no one that will hit on me in the bar, and thus making them feel better about going with me.
9. Not feeling pain in my feet (even in normal shoes- not the spiked heels I adore) after a couple of hours walking.
10. Going into a gym and not feeling all eyes on me.
11. Having to change in front of all the slimmer women in the locker room.
12. Having to take two towels instead of one at the gym because the smaller towels just don't go all the way around.
13. Being able to shop for fall/winter sexy boots that are above ankle height.
14. Having the smocks at Frederic Fekkai, and the doctor's office actually fit.
15. Not getting the "look" when I go into Vickie's, or any other slimmer size store.
16. Worrying that 10 more pounds and my hips are going to be too big to fit through the subway turnstyle without having to turn to the side.
17. Never sitting down on the subway unless it's near empty so that I don't squish anyone.
18. Not having to wear Spanx when I wear a skirt so that my thighs don't chafe.
19. Sex on top without feeling like an elephant.
20. Getting my Tiffany necklaces extended so they don't feel like chokers.

There are many, many more I'm sure. But this is what I came up with for now.

The last three weeks (close to) have been tough. I went into a grocery store for the first time since surgery yesterday and EVERYTHING looked good, even items I would never in a million years be interested in, or that I'm allergic to. Having to avoid real food does this to you, I've decided. In the last week I've drooled over Taco Bell commercials (I've never even eaten there) and Applebee's entrees dripping with condiments that would make me gag. Still, it all looks fresh and hot and appetizing. Three more weeks to a fill, but only one more week til solid food stage. I suspect things will improve when I can eat things I can chew on without intense nausea.

Until then, I'll just keep looking at #19

The 160 to New London, Please...

I missed my 7am train Saturday morning for my Connecticut adventure. Sleep was far too much of a draw for me to crawl my way out from under the cozy warm duvet at 5:30 a.m. Had I known what was going to befall me for missing this train, I would have hopped out of bed without a second thought.

Fate seemed to toss me a lifepreserver when I got outside and managed to catch a cab right outside my building. The driver actually got out and put my bag in the back of the SUV instead of just popping the back open for me, the interior was nice and warm, and the radio was tuned to some soothing classical. The guy was chatty, a little overly so, but it didn't bother me very much. We hit traffic by the time we got to Lex though and that should have been a sign of things to come. He finally pulled up to the Amtrak side of Penn at 8:50. The 160 to Boston was leaving at 9 and I still needed to get my tickets from the electronic kiosk. I wave good-bye to Muhammed who I will likely never see again and tell him to have a great weekend.

I walked briskly to the packed interior of the Amtrak waiting area to announcements that the national grid was down, tickets were not accessible and you could purchase on-board with no penalty. Great. But I had a reservation already. Working my way through the mass of people, I get on the train and find an empty two-seater. Perfect. Nope, not so much. The 9am is late enough that everyone wants to get on and seats fill quickly. Isn't this why I usually take the 3am? I end up with a young mom and her 1 y.o. (I'm guessing here) sitting next to me and I'm praying to the crying baby gods that this kid stays quiet for the duration. I spent the next hour or so trying to get the Amtrak people on the phone to cancel my reservation, and manage 2 dropped calls later to get just that. But Enterprise tells me that they're closing at noon, and if I miss them, that's just too damn bad.

I'm cursing that extra two hours of sleep that I took, but Mom and baby get off in New Haven and I've got both seats to myself now. Perhaps things will improve? I even manage to nap a bit before the train pulls into New London, and after three failed calls, and at 11:52, I get Enterprise to say they'll pick me up. Damn straight.

Things go better at the rental place. I get a choice between several cars and pick the brand new black Chrysler Pacifica (a car, by the way, I would definitely buy if I was in the market). The next several hours are a blur of people, and kids, and cake, and stores, and smiling to meet new people, and entertaining, mingling, and lots and lots of driving, and a karaoke bar filled with jeebs. Megan's* (we'll protect the names for the innocent here- and that one's for you Jason- you know who you are) son had a great 3rd birthday, loved his cake shaped like a McDonald's french fry box with fries hanging out, I finally met my friend Sara's* new boyfriend and I got to visit with family. It was a crazy, long day and I was exhausted before it was half over.

Sunday became much like Saturday (these weekends are always a whirlwind) Megan, Julie*, and I drove up to my stepmom's new shared house with her girlfriend and her kids and we swam in the arctic pool and lounged in the hot tub. It was relaxing, but after a while, my port site couldn't take any more submersion. We soon departed for the mall, wandering around as a group, and getting my nephew's hair cut (he looks SO adorable now- away from the hoodrat style his mom loves to put him in). After dinner it was time to race back to the station and get on another train. This one I had to wait until Stamford to have both seats to myself, but that's better than the whole trip. I bunkered down with my fleece and my pillow and iPod and managed to catch a few Zzzz's before landing back at Penn, 38 some hours after I had last seen it. The cab driver didn't utter a word to me the entire trip, aside from "left or right" when we returned to Tudor City, but that was a-ok with me.

I think I'll stay home next weekend...and the weekend after that....

Smith and Wollensky

Richard, and his spontaneity, took me to Smith and Wollensky on 3rd Ave. last night. It's a famous steakhouse with a couple spots in big cities; the kind of place I heard you needed reservations much in advance to get into (an incorrect assumption, as it turns out). I had walked past the spot several times walking to work and wondered just how much a steak ran you in a joint like that. The answer? A lot.

As of yesterday, I am officially two weeks out. Still on my mushies and liquids and not able to take more than about a cup of food at meals. Rich suggested the place for its mashed potatos, (having had his heart set on finding me potatos worthy of my palate) one of very few staples beyond protein shakes and beef broth I've had these two weeks, though out of convenience mine were usually the flaked kind from a Betty Crocker box in my pantry, not real potatos and certainly not Smith and Wollensky potatos.

The result is that my suspicions about my stomach beginning to heal, form its scar tissue around the band, and ability to take in more volume has received concrete evidence supporting the supposition. I managed a lobster tail, a few shrimp, a few bites of crab (all from the delicious, sumptuous, irresistable cold shellfish appetizer plate they served elegantly on an ice-loaded platter) and probably a half cup of the most fluffy, buttery, well-seasoned mashed potatos I had ever put in my mouth. To say my Betty Crocker flakes paled in comparison is a gross understatement. Really, it's like comparing a vintage Syrah or Cab with Arbor Mist out of the fridge, or worse yet, that wine in a box stuff (which I've never had, thank you).

I also broke the rules though, and would be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous about the consequences (they warn you after all...slippage, erosion, etc..etc...) The shellfish were obviously not blended or liquid, though they were soft; the kind of thing that goes down smooth regardless. Oh, and I chewed every bite at least 10 times before swallowing. As if that makes a difference? Who knows. Still, it felt really good to eat real food for the first time in a few weeks and I may just dream of the mashed potatos later on.

Sitting in a restaurant, a REAL restaurant...not just Olive Garden, or some diner on 2nd Avenue was a sincere treat. Smith and Wollensky's is the type of place that serves you with absolute class. The servers are men of a certain age in dinner jackets and napkins across their forearms instead of college girls or actors/actresses trying to make a few bucks for rent; the wine lists are long and detailed, and there's a certain aura in the room of elegance which straightens your back and causes you much more care with your motions, your reach from fork to mouth. There are no cocktail lists, though there is a bar, and no one will sit next to you whilst taking your order to appear more friendly and personable.

I've been to a few places like this now (Todd English's Olives at the W, that steakhouse near my office which I still strain to recall the name, and I'm sure a few others I can't recall off the top of my head), and I thankfully feel less and less out of place at them, but there's still a twinge.

I spent a few moments gazing up at the 19th Century (perhaps early 20th?) oil paintings of a stern looking man, and next to him, a woman with a furrowed brow; wondering if this would be Mr. and Mrs. Smith, or Wollensky. Sadly, no caption underneath, no plaque, nothing to betray the empty gazes of their surnames.

Richard was, of course, delighted with himself for suggesting the place for its "real" mashed potatos and wanted to order more to takeout. The gesture was endearing and sweet. A truly kind act for the benefit of me eating real food.
As I felt the calories sink in, and the dizziness lift, I managed a sincere smile.

In a few minutes I'll pull the leftovers they were only to happy to bag for me out of the office fridge and test their left-over value. Please, oh please let them be as orgasmically fulfilling as they were last night.

The Part and Parcel Wisdom of Ms. Ephron

I spent my last Saturday in the gated park across the street from my building (see above) delightfully devouring the words of Nora in the aforementioned book, "I Feel Bad About My Neck" and basking in the sunshine. Similarly to my rare but sincere joy in receiving an e-mail forward worth my time and attention, I ingested every tidbit Ms. Ephron had to give, althought decidedly some parts were more entertaining than others. Towards the end, she summarized her thoughts in a series of colloquialisms. Here's a few I found particularly noteworthy:

- Never marry a man you wouldn't want to be divorced from.

- The last four years of psychoanalysis are a waste of money.

- The plane is not going to crash.

- If the shoe doesn't fit in the shoe store, it's never going to fit.

- Overinsure everything.

- There's no point in making piecrust from scratch.

- Never let them know.

- Overtip.

- If only one third of your clothes are mistakes, you're ahead of the game.

- There are no secrets.

I particularly like the shoes and clothes comments. Those that know me in real life will have some idea why.

In a few months from now, I'll be weeding down my wardrobe, buying a few "in-between size" staples to get me through. I'll also be tossing out thousands of dollars, and hours of shopping worth of ensembles. OH THE HUMANITY. At least they'll go to a good cause and some goodwill shopping chics will look fabulous! While the loss of the great pieces saddens me, it'll be exciting to have a clean slate.

In any case, Nora waxes poetic about all sorts of things in her book: the tedious and expensive upkeep of women, (yes ladies, here I refer to manicures, pedicures, dye jobs, waxings of all sort, creams, lotions, botox, etc...etc...) the futility of attempting to keep your purse organized and free of clutter, and for women of a certain age, the hatred of the age-showing neck. Thankfully, I am unable to relate to that last tidbit.

This week I've moved on to a Jennifer Weiner, who wrote the book that In Her Shoes was based on. So far so good, but I think I'm going to have to actually buy a copy of the Ephron book to remind myself all these things in 10 or 15 years.

The Olympic Torch Bearer

I slept on my stomach last night. HALLELUJAH! I slept on some of my softer bits for the first time in 13 days and I wasn't in excrutiating pain. I have never been so happy to be able to roll over since I was probably 4 or 5 months old (I really don't know this- I'm guessing. With no children I can only assume when one begins to roll over.) I hate, loathe, destest, and despise sleeping on my back. I just don't do it. Occasionally sides, but for the most part, I am the Olympic Torch Bearer. Yes, you heard right. Have you ever read those things that analyze the way we sleep and give them funny nicknames? Prior to this surgery I have been on my stomach, usually left arm up under the pillow and left leg up, simulating the torch bearer running towards the glory moment of lighting the flame. The last two weeks has been flat on my back, not moving an inch all night, body subconsciously knowing it would hurt like hell to move, waking up sore and in much need of a back massage.

Well my friends, last night was like the opening ceremonies after four long years. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

Now that I bring it up, getting out of bed has been amusing and much like an Olympic event. OK, amusing now that I'm not forced to submit to its ridiculousness any longer. With no use of the abs (any of them- and you'd be surprised how much they're connected to everything else in your body), one must flop like a fish from mid-bed to side of bed, using the wall, or whatever else isn't moving as leverage to get where you want to go until you can plant your feet firmly on the ground and propel yourself up in the miraculous and completely ungraceful dismount. The ceremony of it, the 5 minute process of moving a bit, taking some deep lamaze breaths and moving again is a silly, silly, painful proposition. And I feel I should have earned a medal for the daily routines I perfected into a Nadia Comanece-worthy "10".

I have also never been happier to have the weight of my chest off my body for the 8 or 9 hours of slumber I attempt in a given night. My rack, fabulous as it is, is undoubtedly part of the reason I am the torch bearer. I have never felt the weight of my chest, the WEIGHT of it on my ribs, on my abdomen, causing pressure as I have since the surgery. It's a very strange thing. In due time, I'm sure I'll go back to loving and hating my rack for all it represents, but for the last two weeks...not so much.

So I made it back to work yesterday. I started in the morning with a bang, getting more accomplished than I felt I had in the prior two weeks leading up to surgery. It helps of course that I returned to a mountain of work in front of me. That 2 pm time I predicted not long back though was true to its word. I had to leave the office around 2:30. I just had no steam left. Much like I feel now...

What a damn wuss I have turned out to be, hmm?

Nine Days Post-Op

So this is me. Nine days out. Progress is being made here. A week ago....hell, three days ago I still felt on the verge of death. Pain in the port site, nausea, the weak and dizzies, and I won't get into the bathroom here. I was and have been sitting far left of regretland, wondering what I did to myself. I even went out and bought that "Weight Loss Surgery for Dummies" just to read all the reassuring things I could read for free on the internet- that it was ok to still feel shitty a week out when some were doing laps at the mall feeling fabulous; that the nausea was still present for some, that some needed three weeks out of work when I had been expecting three days tops, and I would finish somewhere around 7. Speaking of which, I go back Monday.

In part I'm gleeful. A week at home post-op is no perfect vacay. You feel miserable, sick, tired, and very, very alone. The phone's no good because you don't have the energy to speak to anyone for more than a few minutes and there's definitely no energy for entertaining guests. That leaves family, and with mine a state or so away, it was go-it-alone time. In that manner I'll be glad to get back to the desk. I'll be glad to see my colleagues and fall into the work rhythm and listen to the usual work-time fracas from my friends there. I will be glad to be sitting at a desk when I get tired at 2pm and want nothing more than to nap.

It will be scary too though. Only one really knows what I went in for. A few others know I had "surgery" but not what kind. I don't know what to say to the questions, especially when the weight starts to come off. I don't want to be deceptive, worse, let some think I have some secret I'm holding on to, but moreso I don't want the questions, the assumptions, the judgments that come when people know weight loss surgery is involved. I'm really feeling Star's predicament about now.

The point of writing now though, is that I'm feeling BETTER! I feel like me again. I don't feel like I'll fall over if I'm standing for more than 40 seconds. I did laundry today. I did dishes. I went outside, sat in the sun and read Nora Ephron's "I Feel Bad About My Neck, and other thoughts on being a woman." Fabulous read by the way. She's writing from the perspective of a sixty-something woman but not only are there relatable things for twenty-verging on thirty-somethings, but wisdom as well. Little part and parcel tidbits to look out for. Good stuff.

In any case, I feel good. The energy is not all the way there yet, but the nausea has lifted long enough for me to get in some protein shakes in. The mornings are still tough. At night I can turn on either side now and stay there a while instead of being stuck on my back for 8-10 hours. When I first wake up though, that's when the port site is most sore, when it's hardest to move, and the stomach feels the most topsy-turvy; but it's improving. I haven't needed the liqud Tylenol more than once a day, and at that it's only been once in three days.

So wish me luck that it keeps going in this direction and I'll be back with updates soon.

Scars: Post Op + 4

The surgery was last Thursday. I meant to blog the night before, capture my thoughts of fear, excitement and anticipation, but the to-do's got to be too much and I never got around to it. Having only had surgery as an infant, I had nothing to measure what I might feel like coming out of anaesthesia. One can hardly compare having their stomach ripped open to a bikini wax or broken arm, after all. There are degrees of pain, and this one went off the charts for me.

A disclaimer: If you're reading this and thinking about the surgery, please take the following passages with a grain of salt, I am a big baby when I'm sick.

Once in the operating room, after a plethora of delays including an emergency appendectomy of some poor sap and lots of waiting around, I was wheeled in and moved over to the right table and five or six people started hooking me up to all sorts of things, boots for my legs to prevent clots, an arm pressure cuff, blood oxygen monitor...you name it. I expected I would be asked to count down, but honestly the last thing I remember is the anaesthesiologist telling me I would start to feel sleepy, this was just the pre-op sedative. That was it though, I was out, gone...in la la land. Big Bird could have come into the operating room and done the surgery and I wouldn't have known the difference. I never even saw the surgeon in the room.

I woke up with lips and throat dryer than I have ever expereienced, but the recovery nurse couldn't give me anything to wet them yet, it was too early. I felt the stabbing pain in my right side every time I took a breath and it was all I could do to communicate that whatever she was giving me wasn't working. I just laid there with tears streaming down my face, moaning that it hurt out of my parched throat. Pretty soon though I was hooked up to my best friend for the next day and a half, the self-controlled morphine machine. The nurse also came over and gave me several shots of something that was very effective at killing the pain, but not long-lasting. It would die down after about five minutes and I'd want more. The morphine still didn't feel like it had kickec in. By the time I had left the recovery room she had given me four shots of that sweet nectar painkiller. She also gave me something of a gauze lollypop, drenched in water to suck on, and it was heaven. I am by no means religious, but God Bless that nurse, seriously.

Shortly after they wheeled me to my room on the tenth floor of that part of the hospital, and by some minor miracle, I got a private room. For this I also thanked my lucky stars. If one should have to be in the hospital, at their most vulnerable, unable to get up without help, unable to move without pain, unable to wipe their own ass (yes...it's true) then one should at least be able to do it alone, or around only other healthcare professionals; not someone else, and someone else's family.

For the first several hours I just layed there. Cathy came in, and brought my blanket and pillow from home, my teddy bear (yes, damnit I brought my bear) and I felt much better having her there. I was so glad I hadn't decided to be independent and stupid and do all of this on my own. So I just lay there, for the most part, trying to get comfortable, clicking that morphine button to the tune of 11cc per hour and I was wonderfully without pain.

By the time night rolled around there were threats of cathetars though, and looming nurses telling me it was time to get up and pee. Your body is a strange thing. They tell you that somehow during the course of the surgery, it can forget how to perform normal bodily functions, and if that occurs, they have to tube you. Something you really, really don't want. So I forced my way over and without getting too graphic, determined not to get a cathetar, made sure that I was not going to have one. Man, that sucked.

I also walked around a bit after that, and made a couple of loops around the ward holding on to my IV stand for dear life. Walking was good, but I only made it a couple of laps before I wanted to go back to the morphine sanctuary of my bed.

The night time wasn't much fun. Nurse's aids came in what seemed every hour to take my temp and blood pressure, which for most of the night was non-existent hovering at about 85/40. They didn't seem too concerned though and I drifted in and out of sleep.

Friday morning after more bathroom adventures it was time for the fluoroscopy, to make sure nothing was leaking and that the port had been placed right. Miserable. They cut you open and sew you back up and the next day they want you to move to an X ray table where they jossle you around and ask you to drink a cup full of foul tasting liquid at the same time. Again, I cried.

They let me out Friday night, after I could prove to them that I could eat the mushy foods they put in front of me. By the time it rolled around, I was so desperate to leave (they had unhooked me from my friend the morphine machine hours previously) that I didn't want to wait the 30 mins for the wheelchair escort. I walked my ass out of Mt. Sinai the way I came in.

It's been a couple of days now. Some pain is the same. The port site is still stabbing and very painful, and the gas trapped in the abdominal cavity is annoying and painful; and I have a numbness on my lower lip area apparently from the anaesthesia that hasn't gone away and is purely irritating.

I was tremedously ambitious thinking I would be well enough to work today. I'm just taking it a day at a time right now, but today I'm thinking it will be more like Wednesday or Thursday. It's getting easier to sleep. Last night I actually managed a couple of hours on my side, but it's still brutal getting up from laying down.

If there is or was going to be a regret moment in all of this, I suppose now is the time. Before I see any results, and when the pain is the worst. It can only go up from here.