Designated Fat Girl (22 page)

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 minutes, 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.

That afternoon, I became aware of how incapable I was of being a caregiver for my children. I wasn’t supposed to lift anything for a couple of weeks, and that meant not picking up the children. I got around this in various ways, including having Eli step up into a chair and climb over the crib railing when it was time for his nap. Probably not the safest thing in the world, but he was two and a half, and I stood right there while he did it, sure that I would be able to help if needed. While both kids were sleeping, I writhed around in agony, my collarbone pain hurting so much, I was near tears. It wasn’t long before Eli woke up and wanted out of his crib. I couldn’t let him climb out the same way he’d climbed in; even I knew that was too dangerous. The day before, I’d been able to lift him out, even though I wasn’t supposed to and it hurt like hell. This day, however, I just couldn’t do it. I could barely lift my arms, much less a thirty-pound toddler. So at first I ignored his cries, hoping he would fall back asleep. When he only got louder, I walked to his room, doubled over from the pain. Feebly I tried to soothe
him with my words, but honestly, I thought I would die … and I was scared. I couldn’t even care for my child! There I sat with him, for forty-five minutes, talking to him and playing with him through the slats of his crib. Michael eventually got home, and I tearfully told him how I wasn’t able to lift our son out of his crib.

Finally I couldn’t take it any longer. I called the doctor’s office and told his nurse that my pain was worse than ever and the fever was back. I couldn’t function in my daily life, and I needed help. She called back that evening, saying the surgeon wanted me to have another CT scan, this time as an outpatient. I went the next day and had a much better experience. I wasn’t made to drink anything yucky, and the nurse gave me complete instructions on what to do. That afternoon the surgeon’s nurse called me at home with the results: no abscess. Nothing wrong that they could see. I probably just had a bug and would feel better in a few days. “But what about the pain in my collarbone?” I asked weakly. The nurse wasn’t sure, but she scheduled an appointment for me to see the doctor in a couple of days.

That night Michael was furious. He couldn’t believe the doctor wasn’t doing more and that I was still in so much pain. As I sat in the recliner, I thought I would faint from the pain in my shoulder area. Michael gave me more pain meds, and they helped. We reluctantly made plans to send the kids off—Emma would go to my mom’s house and Eli would go to Michael’s parents. It broke our hearts to do this—our children had never been away from both of us, not even for one night. Michael would go with me to the doctor, and he vowed not to leave until
we found out something definitive.

We went to the surgeon’s office and didn’t have to wait long. As we waited for the doctor, I tearfully told the nurse that I wasn’t any better and I desperately needed some help. As if on cue my doctor came in the room, and I swear he was whistling, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. He stopped abruptly when he saw me start to cry even harder. I couldn’t speak, so Michael told him I wasn’t feeling any better and that my pain was in fact a lot worse. It was then that the doctor said he hadn’t read the latest CT scan himself; he simply went by what the radiologist told him, that the scan was clear. He left the exam room to go pull up the report to get a look for himself.

He was back in less than five minutes, phone to his ear. “I’m calling the radiologist now. I see an abscess.”

The news should have been devastating, but all I could feel was relief. So I wasn’t crazy! I’d known that something wasn’t right, and now there was proof to back me up. Even if it meant another stay in the hospital, and a painful procedure to endure, I was relieved to finally have some answers.

My relief was short-lived. I had to report back to the hospital the next morning for a CT-guided drain of the abscess. They would use the CT machine to find the infection, and then the radiologist would use a very long needle to get the liquid out. I would be awake the entire time, and they would not be able to give me a lot for the pain because I had to be awake and alert for the procedure.

Fabulous.

I was already in a lot of pain. But I was told not to eat or drink anything after midnight, so I went in, having had no
pain medication. I was really hurting. The nurse who was going to be with me for the procedure was apparently having a bad day. She shuffled her feet slowly to complete her tasks, taking her sweet time. I was in agony. She then told me to lie down on the cot and to not move. This was unreal to me—since the pain in my collarbone had arrived, I’d been sleeping in the recliner again, unable to lie flat because of the pain. Now she wanted me to lie there and not move a muscle. Excruciating.

So I lay there while she did a bunch of stuff. And I lay there while she talked to some people. And I lay there while she disappeared for a while. With tears streaming down my face, I asked her, when she came back, what we were waiting for, and she said we were waiting for the radiologist to arrive. I asked her if I could get up until he got there, just to stretch and try to relieve some of the pain, but she said no—it was very important that I keep the same position. I really thought I would die, I hurt so much.

Another fifteen minutes or so went by. She then breezed in and told me that after the procedure I would be going to a step-down unit to be monitored, and then I would be sent home.
What?
I told her that my doctor said I would be in the hospital for several days—that he wanted to make sure this time there were no more complications. Believe me, even though I now hated hospitals with a passion, I wholly supported that idea, after all I’d been through. But this nurse told me that my doctor wasn’t in charge of the whole hospital and that there simply weren’t enough beds for me to stay. I was going home, and that was that. I cried even more. She then told me that if I wanted to,
I could go call my doctor for confirmation. This time I couldn’t hold back. “Oh!
Now
you’ll let me get down? I’ve been writhing in pain for more than an hour, begging you to let me move, and you said no, I had to stay in the same position!
Now you’re going to let me get down?”
I didn’t know how to call my doctor—it wasn’t like I carried his phone number with me. I just cried harder, scared and in pain, not knowing what to do. The nurse left me there.