I’m getting too old for this stuff. According to the surgeon’s notes I scheduled myself a “minimally invasive component separation, 6cm incarcerated ventral hernia, laparoscopic abdominal wall reconstruction for recurrent incarcerated hernia” surgery. In simpler language the doctor was going to perform a hernia below my rib cage and sew up the splitting of my abdominal area (the abs known affectionately as the almighty six-pack) referred to as diastasis recti. This is not my first rodeo when it comes to hernias. No, this would be my fourth repair. It seems that each hernia snuck around the surgical repairs within a year or two. Helping this feat to take place was the weakening and separation of the abdominal wall—the abs six-pack. I can assure you that I have never had well-defined abs in my life, and certainly none that would be admired like an Adonis figure. The closest I ever came was when I held a six-pack of beer in front of my chest at a college party.
The surgeon was going to stitch the two sides of the abs back together—right up the center of my abdominal area. Then she was going to push the pesky hernia back into its rightful place and cover its escape hatch with a bunch of surgical mesh. That was the plan until she found a second hernia joining the party off to the side of the first hernia. This was something she hadn’t expected but she took care of since she was already under my skin . . . a two-for-one bargain. It was all done by robotics . . . at least that is what I was told . . . two to two-and-a-half hours top and I would be slapped back together with no more protrusions making me resemble the Poppin’ Fresh Dough Boy of Pillsbury fame.
Piece of cake . . . after all this was not my first walk in the park; no, this was my fourth! Oh, how poorly the mind remembers the past. Especially the recovery part. The surgery was easy because the patient is off in la-la land thanks to the wonders of anesthesia. One minute you slid your butt onto the surgical table and the next you wake up several hours later in a room surrounded by a lot of smiling faces asking if you know your name and where you are at. I felt like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz upon her return to Kansas. I thought Toto was hiding in the corner. It is not long after that when memory confronts reality. I am not sure if my memory failed me or if doing this surgery at 67 plus years old was confronting me with reality . . . painful reality.
Geez, I forgot how painful this surgery ends up being. This surgery was outpatient. No spending the night in the hospital unless the pain was severe or there were complications. There were no complications. Severe pain? I think pain medication is given to expire several hours after the patient gets home. Outside of some discomfort of movement I felt no pain . . . at least not until I got home. All the fun and adventure began once I got home.
Owie! Owie! Owie! From my chest down to my crotch, I hurt. First there was the pain from the pre-surgical shaving . . . from the chest to the crotch. It was both physical and psychological pain. The nurse whipped out that electric razor and went to town in from of God and everyone gathered in the room. Up, down, left, right she went with the razor shaving hair off. Lower and lower she kept going to parts I wasn’t quite ready to share with strangers in the room. Then once the shaving was done she used those CHG (Chlorhexidine Gluconate) wipes to scrub down and sterilize the shaved area and they burned. They were burning hours later . . . owie, owie, owie!
Then there was the pain of the actual surgery. The doctor covered a lot of area. Rarely do any of us think about the abdominal area of our bodies and how involved that area is in our minute-to-minute lives. Those muscles are the center of it all. We use them when we stand up, sit down, bend over, roll over, pick something up, walk, sit to take a poop, sneeze, cough, twist, and turn . . . these muscles move a lot. Having someone push and move them around before stitching them together creates a whole lot of tenderness and soreness . . . a whole lot of pain. It feels like someone took a baseball bat and tenderized the whole abdominal area of my body. It hurts like . . . well, hell! I move like a hundred-year-old person—slowly and deliberately with a lot of moaning and groaning . . . lots!
I have discovered that the key to controlling this pain is to not move. This of course is the opposite of what the medical people says brings healing—they say “move!” Granted they don’t say to run a marathon, but they do say to move around—walk, stretch, exercise, wiggle your toes, flail your arms. The moving around part is no big deal. It is getting up and doing it that kills a person. Thankfully they do understand this and include a “better living through chemistry” section in the recovery. Both non-prescription and narcotic painkillers with a heavy emphasis on the non-narcotic route. Lots of Tylenol and Ibuprofen. Plus, a fiber treatment because anesthesia tends to clog the plumbing. Apparently being constipated is not good for hernia surgery recovery.
Another pain is the pain of hunger. Prior to the surgery I was told to stop eating at midnight which basically meant I ate my last meal at 6:00PM the night before. One does not exist on water, tea, and broth from 24 hours when he is a steak and potato guy. Then coming out of surgery it is pretty much the same—no real food for several days until the pooper starts pooping. I guess I should thank God for Meta Muscil. Kind of speeds up the process. Hangry is not a good look on anyone and I’ve had enough Campbell’s Chicken and Rice soup. Lots of liquids. Lots of trips to the bathroom. I really craved a burger from our local greasy spoon but was vetoed.
Throwing in sleepy as another inconvenience . . . an impossibility . . . a painful proposition. For healing, sleeping on one’s back is the best, quickest, and painless. That is not a problem when one sleeps on one’s back. I am not one of those people. I am a combination of one side and semi-prone on the top. Legs are in a hurdler’s position. Arms crossed under the pillow. Quite a contortion that has be done at least twice—once on each side—before sleep takes place. The wife voted for the recliner. So, I gave it a whirl.
My recliner is a cushy contraption. Very comfortable. Has a mind of its own. When fully reclined it is completely horizontal for sleeping. Also, when fully reclined one has the tendency to be engulfed . . . consumed in the cushiness . . . sunk in . . . immersed. This is fine until one wakes up and must visit the bathroom. Then the adventure begins. Lots of moaning, groaning, and swearing trying to figure out the best way to sit up and remove myself from the chair without tearing out all the surgery that has been performed. Can’t really call it sleep . . . dozing maybe but not sleeping when its every hour on the hour of wakefulness thanks to that liquid diet, a small bladder, and that pesky bladder monkey that likes to visit us older folks in the middle of the night. Deciding that there had to be a better way, I decided to sit up and sleep in the recliner. But the recliner had its own ideas. As I am sitting in the chair it begins to slowly inch its way back while I am dozing until it is in the prone position and I am completely on my back. It is a comedy of errors that doesn’t bother the chair but makes my life a P.I.T.A. I’ve taken to sleeping sitting up which is good for a couple of hours until I get a new pain in my neck from leaning to the left or right. I never thought I would dread sleeping.
I’m holding my doctor to her word. She joking referred to me as a “cash cow” if she continued to do what the previous surgeons had done in repairing the hernia. She could make a lot of money off me she said. Instead, she wants to repair it once and for all. Four is enough. She went all out. Then she warned me to do as she says throughout recovery. This is her specialty and she is the best. I admire her confidence and fear her words. She means what she says, and I am not going to mess with her. After all of this and my poor memory of the previous adventures . . . I can’t take another one. If it goes as planned, she will be my hero.
As I said earlier, this is not my first rodeo. I’m getting too old to participate in the rodeo. My mother used to say that this too shall pass . . . and it will. Besides my abdominal area is a walking fly swatter with all the mesh that has been inserted. It has only been 24 hours since the doctor worked her magic . . . only 1,008 hours (six weeks) until recovery is complete. I can handle it . . . I’m retired and have nothing else to do. It is a long rodeo, but I will make it. Then goodbye to the Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh Dough Boy and hello to an awesome six-pack down there somewhere. Watch out Brad Pitt! Here I come!
