Monday, June 10, 2013


Today is my two-month surgiversary.  Hard to believe, but you know what they say about time flying when you're having fun.  Except I'm not really having fun.  This past week has been one challenge after another, and more than one day has ended in tears.

Trying to get all my protein in along with all my hydration is challenging.  Keeping solid food down is challenging - because I don't remember to chew it well enough, or I eat too fast, or I don't listen to my body closely enough and recognize when I'm full.  Because of the inadequate hydration and the frequent upchucking, my body is starting to do other crazy stuff that isn't exactly pleasant, like...well...sensitive readers who don't enjoy a good poop talk should close this post now, but let me tell you - I would give my right arm at this point to have a normal bowel movement.   My system seems to have been taken over by demons.  Demons playing with bowling (boweling?) balls covered in glass shards.

Constipation?  Bah.  That's an understatement.  Let's just say that after this past week, I have a whole new admiration for anyone who's ever given birth.  Draw your own conclusions there, folks, but I can't remember any time in the last 42 years when a trip to the bathroom lasted so long with such little result or ended in so much pain, so many tears, or any amount of sheer exhaustion.

A few days ago I came home from an early shift at work with a plan to spend the entire rest of the day doing stuff.  I had a list!  I had energy!  I had ambition!  I had hours and hours and hours to enjoy!  I was going to go to the gym.  I was going to work in the yard.  I was going to run errands, do chores, accomplish goals.  But I did nothing.  Not because I was lazy, not because I found something better to do.  Nope. I did nothing because I spent nearly 90 minutes on the toilet sweating, swearing, and ultimately sobbing in frustration and pain, and when it was all over (or as "over" as it was gonna get), I was exhausted and drained beyond measure.  It was all I could do to shlep my tired body on to the sofa, and once there I didn't move for the rest of the night. 

Mind you, this is AFTER I'd attempted to address the issue with various products, tricks, remedies and exercises, none of which seemed to be up for the job.

Too much information?  Sorry.  I tried to keep it as nondescript as possible, but it IS something I have to deal with, something that has sort of taken over my life at the moment.   I can't poop, and it's astonishing to me how profoundly it affects my existence.  I mean, how often do we really think about stuff like this?  Most of us just get up, do what we gotta do, and then get on with our day.  But not me.  Not right now.  Right now I am at odds with my excretory system, living in fear of my toilet, cursing the demons of anti-defecation.  I've become mildly obsessed with the possibility that I could die like Elvis, slumped over on my toilet, and that only adds to the problem.  Every time I try to go I think, "what if I die like this?" and then I start thinking of all the people who could potentially discover my lifeless body.  It's not a very comforting thought, you know.

Maybe I need this book.

I've upped my water intake as much as I can, and have even added some fiber into my diet.  But there's only so much I can put in that little thing, and fiber e-x-p-a-n-d-s, which then makes me too full, which then causes me to throw up, which then defeats the whole purpose and starts the vicious cycle again.  It's enough to make me want to rip out my hair...except I hear that'll happen on its own in a few weeks.

Of all the things I thought I'd miss, I never imagined regularity would be one of them. 

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