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Sliced and Diced


Benedict

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So, here I am a day after surgery. Guess what! I made it through in tact. With a few scars, a little less hair and a lot of learning to do.The day went as planned. I arrived at seven thirty as instructed and was in my gown, support stockings and rather fetching paper knickers by eight. The formalities were taken care of - a couple of signatures were needed on well-guarded legal papers ensuring I wasn't able to claim for damages in the unlikely event of me failing the post operative "aliveness test". One point I would like to raise here is that the "unlikely event" was suddenly presented to me as 1in 1000; a dramatic increase of odds from the original 1 in 1666.6 recurring that I was originally quoted. Was this a method of getting people in then telling the truth so they were less likely to back out? Had the surgeon's month since seeing me last gone so drastically wrong? Either way - I was in my paper panties and nothing was going to get me out of them!Following the sombre surgeon's sojourn, I was introduced to the man who was in the responsible position of anaesthetising me. A very nice chap with the most god-awful dress sense. I get the feeling it was some kind of patient amusement tactic. Making me believe that, I may well look like a transvestite mental asylum patient in a floral backless dress that flashed tight disposable panties, but at least I didn't look as silly as him. Or maybe he was just partaking of his own drugs.I was led down the hall to the room where I was to be sedated and knocked out. This is where my innate coward pushed aside my bravado and made his way to the forefront of the stage. There, laid serenely in front of me, was what I can only describe as a mortuary slab with a green blanket. I looked back at the pendulous double swinging doors as they eased closed and surveyed my opportunities for a semi-clad escape. I was laying down before I could work out whether the doors would open outwards or whether a mad dash through would do the anaesthetist's job for him. The peer pressure of being so dressed on front of three professional people allowed a few more moments of assumed nonchalance to reappear through my devastated pride. I lay down and looked up.As I considered the six nostrils floating above me, an oxygen mask was put over my face. Panic time! I desperately searched through my arsenal of puerile wit and innuendo so I could disarm the team into such fits of hysterics that I could take flight, or at least delay this trip for a few more minutes.My hand was prepared for the drugs and a cannula inserted. I didn't have much time!Eureka! I created a joke. One so funny that they would be in stitches before me! I made my pre-emptive strike...As the first two words of my epic joke were muttered...I found myself rather confused about the fact that I seemed to skip right to the end, miss the middle, miss the punchline and awake sobbing in the recovery room. Here I would like to assure all readers that it's perfectly normal for emotions to run a little high whilst waking up from the anaesthetic. And that I am indeed a little girl.I had read as many stories about the post-surgery pain that I could. All searches that I had made under "no pain after surgery" had assured me that there would be very little to none at all. In fact, I was so annoyed by the discrepancy in these stories and fact that I wiped the tears from my face and questioned the nurse on whether they had actually had to do open surgery instead of the promised laproscopic one. She reassured me that everything had gone smoothly and requested more tissues for me from her colleague.Eventually I pulled myself together and allowed them to wheel me back to my room. All the way wondering if something wasn't quite right. Had my searches for "no pain after surgery" been misleading?As the hours passed by slowly and the pummelling leg massagers pummelled, I really got to grips with the pain I was feeling. After being sneered at by one nurse for not having the experience to understand true pain until I was able to give birth, I queried my tolerance to other feelings outside of my own comfort. Was I just "being a man" and not handling it at all well? I came to the conclusion, yes - I was.The pain, initially described as 9 out if 10 (10 probably feeling one step away from the gates of hell) was re-evaluated in my mind as the anaesthetic wore off, as merely "heavy discomfort". Apparently they pumped my abdominal cavity full if gas so as to spread the organs and make surgery easier. A little like the stories one hears of brattish children using straws to inflate frogs before popping them.And this was what was causing my distress.Imagine being forced to drink a litre of very fizzy Pepsi in ten seconds. That feeling of just before you erupt in a thunderous belch - held in place by someone tying up the opening of your stomach. Or that feeling when you under chew and rush swallow something far to big and indigestible for your narrow pipes - like a tough piece of steak. As it makes its way slowly down to the stomach neck - then momentarily fools you into thinking these are your last moments on earth. Immense and intense agony for people with a pain threshold such as mine - passable and manageable for others.This cause me to get very little sleep last night and I had to sit upright throughout. I also subjected myself to a truly dreadful film with Matt Damon and Thandie Newton. I was unsure at that point with was more painful to sit through.Today is a slightly different story. The abdominal gas is still present but now displays itself in "referred" format. The gasses press hard against my diaphragm and cause my shoulder and back to hurt. The muscles that I am using to move my excessive bulk about that are compensating for my temporarily retire stomach muscles are not used to carrying the majority of my weight and are, in turn, screaming back at me for subjecting them to such torture.I am able to drink clear liquids far more easily today and I can feel myself getting much better with every hour that passes. Touch wood, all will be back to normal fairly shortly.I am due to be on liquids until Monday then pureed food for four weeks. I am quite a fan of baby food - so don't think this is going to be much of a problem. After then I will move on to small portions of solid foods for the rest of my days. No bread, pasta or rice or anything that could block the passage way through my newly partitioned stomach. A regime of watching exactly what I eat will be in order from now on along with a healthy dose of exercise. The edge of my hunger will be abolished from when I have my first band fill in five weeks time, in which case it will give me that helping hand that I have been missing from previous efforts.All in all, I would say that I don't particularly want to go through surgery again (mainly because I am pathetic with pain, but slightly because of the disposable panties) - but I am very much looking forward to being able to explore a new kind of life in the coming years.I do believe I now deserve a co-codamol / Voltarol cocktail!My Blog - Banded BenMy Site - Benedict Francis

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Ben - I have to say I am so glad your blog caught my eye. I thought I just might PMPL when you said, "I was in my paper panties and nothing was going to get me out of them!" You have a knack for writing and I do so enjoy reading about your journey!

Angie

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