Designated Fat Girl

by Jennifer Joyner

  I’d now been there a full hour, and I was sure Michael was worried. All the other patients who’d come in behind me had already left for their surgeries; I was the only one there. I asked Bob if my husband could come back now, and he said, “Oh, I forgot! Yeah, he could have been back here long ago.” To say I wanted to strangle him would be an understatement; imagine how I felt when one of the other nurses came back, looked at the stockings on my legs, and said, “Why is she wearing these?” Bob looked confused, and I felt the heat start to rise to my face. “Her doctor stopped using these long ago. He uses the plastic braces that snap in place.” What?! I’d struggled to get the stupid things on, and now Bob was closing the curtain so that I could take them off. Shoot. Me. Now.

  When the curtain reopened, I saw my whole surgical team standing there, waiting for me. I also finally saw my husband, who was just a little confused about what was going on. You should have seen his face when I told him we were waiting on a pregnancy test! Finally, I took the test, the negative results were revealed, and I kissed my husband good-bye. As they wheeled my cot toward the operating room, and the sleepy drugs started to kick in, I felt such relief. It had been a crazy morning, and a pretty awful sixteen years. I was ready.

  I woke up from surgery with unbelievable pain. My throat was severely dry, and my bottom hurt from lying on the hard bed for too long in one position. One of the nurses beside me was clearly training the other, and I had difficulty getting their attention, as my voice wouldn’t work properly. Finally I squeaked out that I was thirsty and in pain; they said they couldn’t give me anything yet and we were waiting for a room to come open. I was beyond miserable. My C-sections hadn’t been like this; I wasn’t put to sleep for those, and I had a spinal block that kept the pain away for hours. Plus, I had a pretty, pink newborn to look forward to. As I lay there, feeling hopeless and hurting, I wondered, not for the last time, what in the world I had done to myself.

  In what seemed like an eternity, the nurse finally wheeled me out of recovery and toward my room, only to run into my mother and sister-in-law waiting in the hallway. I can just imagine what I looked like to them—in incredible pain, no makeup, postsurgery. What a mess! They smiled sweetly, and I suppose I mumbled a response. To be honest, it’s all a blur—a pain-riddled memory.

  I was in the hospital for three days, and things slowly improved. Everyone told me how important it was to walk after surgery, but I did not want to get out of bed. I don’t know if it was a side effect of the anesthesia, or just a means of escape for me, but the less time conscious, the better. I did walk that first night after surgery, and it did make me feel a bit better. But that next day, I couldn’t shake my bad feeling. I was wheeled down to radiology so that I could drink some liquid and they could watch it go into my stomach. This test was done to make sure there were no leaks in my new stomach pouch. I passed the test just fine, but the nausea I had to endure from all that movement left me not wanting to get out of bed for the rest of the day. I struggled to find something to make me feel better, and I realized that all of the ways I used to cope in the past were now off-limits. In the hospital after my C-sections, all I’d wanted was Mountain Dew. And my very clear memory of that post-baby time, especially when Eli was in the NICU and I was worried, was that the soda helped calm my nerves, helped settle me down. Only, I couldn’t have a soft drink during this troubled time. Whenever I’d battled nausea before, something I dealt with regularly in my second pregnancy, eating crackers or bread had always helped me to feel better. But I couldn’t do that now. It really dawned on me that I had no way to cope, nothing to use to help settle my nerves. And that realization was very unsettling.

  Looking back, Michael says he knew something was wrong the day I was discharged. My surgical wounds were healing nicely, and all the tests showed I’d come through the surgery with flying colors. I was packed and dressed and all ready to leave my hospital room; only, I didn’t want to go. I said I was sleepy, and I proceeded to doze off in my bed. The nurse eventually had to come wake me, saying once I was officially discharged, I had to leave, unless I wasn’t feeling well—in which case they would have to call the doctor. I reluctantly got up and got into the wheelchair to leave the hospital. Who doesn’t want to leave the hospital? At the time, I thought I was just tired, but soon I would have more evidence that all was not well.

  When we got home, I was so happy to see the kids, but other than that, I was pretty down. Despite all my research about gastric bypasses, all the information I’d collected beforehand, I was ill-prepared for how I would feel afterward. And the best way to describe that feeling is empty. I hadn’t eaten anything in almost a week. I was supposed to be drinking protein shakes and water, but the nausea was debilitating and I couldn’t keep anything down. There was nothing to throw up, so I spent most of my time dry heaving, afraid I would bust out of my staples. I was nowhere near hungry, but something weird happens to you when your mind knows your body isn’t getting nourishment. I would sit and think about food all the time. I’d plan in my head what I would eat as soon as I was able to: meatballs, cheese, peanut butter. I was obsessed with thinking about food and felt very deprived that I couldn’t tolerate any. I also had a very hard time getting comfortable; the staples made it difficult to lie flat, so I slept every night in the recliner in the den. That, along with not eating, just made me feel … sick. And when you feel sick, you wonder if you’ll ever feel better. It wasn’t a happy time.

  Ironically my house was filled with food. Whenever a mom has surgery, the community steps up to the plate. My mom friends, women at my church, and neighbors all brought tons of food for my family. We’re talking fried chicken, pasta, casseroles, plus tons of desserts. Just the smell made my stomach turn, but the thought was even worse: There was all that food and I couldn’t enjoy a morsel of it. I felt like an outcast. Of course, logically, I knew this too would pass and I would find a new normal. But at that point it was hard to convince myself that I would ever feel normal again.

  Ten days after the surgery, on a Friday, was the closest I got to getting back to my old self. My staples were out, and I had a good post-op appointment at the doctor’s office. I told them I’d had a hard time drinking the protein shakes, or eating anything on the liquid diet list, so they prescribed something for nausea. I was hopeful it would work. I even went out in the car, on my own, to fill the prescription and to buy some greeting cards. As I shopped, I looked at the people around me and realized: I’m doing normal stuff. I’m bathed. I’m dressed. I’m running errands. I should be able to eat something soon, once I take the nausea medicine. Things are good. I’m getting better. That night, I was very tired from my afternoon out, but I went to bed for the first time in our bedroom, out of the den recliner. It took a little bit to get comfortable, but I was hopeful, for the first time since I’d had the surgery, that things were looking up.

  Cut to the next morning. I knew it before my eyes even opened for the day: Something was very, very wrong. Every muscle in my body ached, and I wasn’t even moving. Lying still in my bed, I slowly opened my eyes and sucked in air. I was in pain. Everything hurt. It was an allover body ache, and it was scary. Still, I tried to talk myself out of panicking. I knew I hadn’t been drinking my protein shakes or taking my vitamins as I should. I just figured my body was reacting to the lack of nourishment it had endured for the past several days. Vowing to do better that day, I made my way out of bed and into the den, where Michael and the kids were already up.

  I convinced Michael to take Emma to her soccer game, sure that I was fine enough to stay home alone with Eli, who was then two and a half. He told me to call him if there was any problem, and I assured him I would be all right. I put on a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD, and Eli was hooked. I went to take a shower, convinced it would make me feel better.

  Once out of the shower, I could not warm up. I was shivering so violently that I dove under the covers on our bed and stayed there for twenty minutes, trying desperately to find warmth. Eli
wandered in to find me and saw me shaking; he thought it was a funny game Mommy was playing. I sure wish I’d felt like laughing. I followed him back into the den and put on another movie, then I lay on the couch. I was still freezing, and I knew I must have a fever. But I couldn’t remember for the life of me where I’d put the thermometer, and I was in no shape to go on a hunt. Fever after surgery—that can’t be a good thing. But it’s been eleven days, I told myself. Surely this can’t be related to the gastric bypass! I lay there fighting with myself, all the while trying to reach Michael on his cell phone, but I kept getting his voice mail. Desperate, I called my mom, who tried to reassure me from two hundred miles away that I was fine. In what seemed like forever, Michael finally came home and found me on the couch. He took one look at me and knew something was wrong. He found the thermometer: 101.5. I tried to argue that was a low-grade fever, but Michael wasn’t buying it. He made me place a call to the on-call doctor. As we waited for him to call back, I started throwing up, or dry heaving. It was not a pretty sight.

  A doctor who did not do my surgery was on call that weekend. He asked me if I’d had a flu shot that year, and I told him no, hoping desperately that that was what was wrong with me. He wondered aloud if he should admit me to the hospital so that he could do a CT scan to see what was going on internally. The thought made me panic, and I started playing up the flu idea. I told him that I felt achy and feverish but that I wasn’t having any abdominal pain, which was the truth. He told me I could have an abscess, and I was flabbergasted. “Eleven days after surgery?” I asked. He said it was rare, but possible. I refused to believe it—I just couldn’t. I asked if we could wait it out a little longer, to see if I felt better the next day, and he agreed. I vowed to take Tylenol to get the fever down, and I promised to call him back with an update.

  My mom drove the two hours to my house to check on me. She agreed with me, saying it was probably the flu. No way would a complication of the surgery be showing up this late. Someone should have asked us where we got our medical degrees!

  Mom had to get back to her house—my grandmother, her mother, was visiting from Alabama. She tucked me in for a nap and told me I’d be better soon. My mom always makes me feel better when I am sick, and I just knew this time was going to turn out like always.

  When I woke up, the fever was gone, and for a moment, I did think all was better. But then I noticed I had a severe pain in my left collarbone/shoulder area. Had I slept on it funny? I wasn’t sure, but it was sore and it really, really hurt. In fact it hurt all night, and the fever came back. By the next morning, when I was still sick, I knew it wasn’t the flu.

  I called my doctor at his office first thing Monday morning and he didn’t hesitate; he wanted me to meet him at the ER. I so didn’t want to go back to the hospital, but I was at least relieved that I would get some answers. I was tired of wondering what was wrong with me—at least this way, we’d finally know.

  I checked into the hospital at 9:30 a.m.; I had my own room by 10:00 a.m. The nurses I had were really nice, and I thought, Okay, this isn’t so bad. Michael was with me—he’d taken the kids to preschool and his mom was coming to pick them up and be at home with them, so I didn’t feel all alone. I was still sick, but I was starting to feel better about the situation.

  It was a long day. They took blood, they ran tests, and at about 2:00 p.m., I had to start drinking the nasty concoction one has to ingest before a CT scan. Keep in mind I wasn’t eating or drinking much of anything—I’d had my gastric bypass only twelve days before and I still hadn’t learned how to keep anything down. A couple of sips of the lemon-flavored elixir and I knew I was going to throw up. I tried my best, but I told my doctor that I couldn’t drink it, I was too sick. He told me it was okay, they would inject me with contrast at the CT scan and hopefully that would be enough.

  I was finally wheeled down for the CT at 8:00 p.m. I was exhausted, sick, and worried. The blood tests had revealed nothing—no type of infection. What was going on? I was still running a fever, and that horrid pain in my shoulder was still there. I didn’t want any pain medication because it made me nauseous, so I just lived with the hurt. I was miserable. When I went in for the scan, the nurse stuck a cup of the nasty juice under my nose, hoping to get me to drink it. I almost threw up right there on the spot! I explained to her, feebly, that I wasn’t able to drink it and that the doctor had said that was okay. She then left me on the table for what seemed like forever. I felt so alone, and I started to cry softly. Why was this happening to me? And what would the scan reveal? Did I have another surgery to endure? The very thought made me cry harder; I couldn’t bear it.

  All of a sudden, the cot beneath me started to move. I was headed into the CT tunnel, only no one told me what to do or what to expect. A mechanical voice commanded, “Hold your breath.” Was he talking to me? I looked all around, but I didn’t see the nurse, or anyone for that matter. I held my breath as the cot moved back out again. “Breathe,” the voice said, and I blew out. The cot moved again and I held my breath again, as told. In a couple of minutes, it was over.

  I lay on the cot again for what seemed like forever. Finally I heard voices behind me, and looked up to see my surgeon talking to the nurse. I had no idea he would be there! I felt better instantly, and that only intensified when he told me there was no abscess. In fact he didn’t see anything on the scan that indicated there was a problem. I wept again, only this time from relief. He said they would run further tests, but I likely just had the flu or some other bug. I could go home in the morning.

  When a guy from the transport team came to wheel me back to my room, he saw me crying and asked if I was okay. “Yes! My scan was clear. I am so happy!” I told him. He laughed. “Of course you’re okay, honey. God’s got you.”

  His words enveloped me like a warm hug. I felt more hopeful than I had in a while.

  I was discharged the next day. I was so hopeful, I didn’t want to wait for the wheelchair to take me out of the hospital. Walking out on my own symbolized to me that I was on the road to recovery. And I did feel a little better when I got home. But the stubborn pain in my collarbone area soon came back and hurt worse than ever.

  I had a follow-up appointment scheduled with my surgeon. As I sat in his waiting room, I had to keep my ice-cold water bottle on my collarbone—that was the only way I could get some relief. When I saw the doctor, I told him the fever was gone but that the awful pain was still there, throbbing. He didn’t know right away what could be causing the pain, so he ordered more tests. He asked if I was eating and drinking and I lied, telling him yes. The truth was I still couldn’t stomach the awful protein shakes, and I was only taking my vitamins half the time. I still battled crippling nausea, and I was worried that even when they were cut in half, the pills were too big for my tiny stomach pouch. He promised to call with the results of the tests, and he sent me on my way.

  I only had a couple of hours before I had to pick up the kids from preschool, and I was worried. This would be my first time alone with my children since before the surgery, and I was in so much pain, I didn’t know how I would manage. If only I could get some pain relief! I thought about the Percocet I had at home. Maybe if I could force myself to eat a little something, I could take the pain medicine without throwing up. And maybe the pain relief would be enough to get me through the afternoon with the kids until Michael got home. That’s what I was reduced to—just trying to make it through the day.

  And so it was that my first food after surgery was … mashed potatoes. I stopped at Bojangles’ and got some, sans gravy. Here it was, almost fifteen days since my gastric bypass, and this was the first real food I’d had. And I was so scared … of getting sick, of the food getting stuck. But at that point, I would have done anything to make that pain go away, even take pain medication I had managed to avoid after two C-sections. Enough was enough.

  I was able to eat four to five bites of the potatoes. And I took two Percocet when I got home. In less than thirty min
utes, I was soaring. My mind was mushy, and I felt removed from my body. It was a disconcerting feeling, especially when I was about to go drive in a car and pick up my kids. But I had to get away from that pain, whatever it took.

  The next two days were a blur. I somehow went about my daily life, doing my job, which meant recording radio newscasts from my home computer, taking the kids to preschool, picking them up, making dinner. I was in pain, and the fever came back. I felt just as sick as I always had. The only time I got some relief was when I took the pain medicine. Not only did it alleviate some of the physical pain in my collarbone, it left me in such a fog, I was able not to feel … anything. It kept at bay some of the rising doubts in my mind: Was the surgery a mistake? Would I ever feel better? Was this any way to live? These questions were way too heavy for me; I just wanted to escape.

  I was shutting out all my friends and family. I don’t think I did it on purpose; I just didn’t know what to say to them. They all wanted to know if I was feeling better, and I knew that if I told them no, I was feeling worse, the inevitable follow-up questions would be, “What’s wrong?” and “What are you doing about it?” I didn’t know what was wrong, and my doctor wasn’t doing anything about it. I was starting to feel like I was crazy. All my mom friends knew I was having trouble, and offers of food for the family and help with child care were still pouring in. I ignored most of them, because I didn’t know how to respond, what to think. At the preschool one day, one of the well-meaning moms asked if I wanted to speak to her friend, Lisa, who had just had the surgery a week before me and was doing great. Uh, no, I didn’t want to speak to her—I cut the poor woman off and practically ran away. She meant well, but I didn’t need to be reminded that I was a freak, someone who statistically speaking should be doing fine by now but who was beyond miserable.