Ramblings of a cranky old woman

I need to find my passion in life again. I feel like I’m losing it. So often these days I just feel plain tired. Tired of fighting this battle. Tired of gaining weight, then losing weight, then gaining weight, then losing some more. I have nightmares. Sleep is hard for me. I often stay up almost all night, then sleep half the day. I can’t get on a regular schedule. I have too many pills to name. I simultaneously can’t wait to go back to work, and scared witless about starting a new career. There aren’t enough hours in the day, and my to do list never ends. My back and shoulders are a maze of knots, stretched tight, like strings on a violin. I cry at random moments throughout the day. I stay anxious and wound up, feeling like I’m in a race I have to win.

So some nights I take a bubble bath. I may have one tonight. Lord knows I could use one. And a massage. I just had a professional massage not that long ago, but if there’s one thing I could probably never get enough of, it’s a good massage. I’m pretty sure that’s my idea of heaven, an endless eternity of massages. Or sometimes, I smoke a little of God’s miracle drug, marijuana. I may do that tonight too. It helps. And sometimes the best therapy is to talk to a good friend. Maybe my mother, or a relative, or one of my girlfriends. Laughter really can be the best medicine, but so can too a silent ear. Or a hand to hold.

Last night I was having terrible nightmares. It was the kind that as I dreamt, I knew I was dreaming but couldn’t wake from. When I did finally awake, I called out for my momma. She came and laid in the bed with me. And everything was okay again. That’s just what momma’s do I guess. Right now I am sitting on my screened-in porch, and trying to let the sounds of nature work it’s magic. It’s kind of sad knowing that it takes effort to relax. But that’s how I feel most days - that true relaxation is a thing of the past.

I died my hair blue. Well, parts of it anyway. And for some reason, that made me feel a little better about life. Something to control. Something fun and different. Or maybe I’m also just a little tired of hearing how lucky I am that I didn’t lose my hair in chemo, which seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I feel like I’ve lost so much already, what’s a little hair to boot? But, I guess I should be thankful, and truthfully I guess I am. So maybe I added a little color in honor of those who weren’t as lucky. Is it a coincidence that blue is the color of colon cancer awareness? Perhaps not.

It’s been a long year and a half. I wish I could be more optimistic, and offer up something inspiring and thoughtful. But not this night. This night is for me. You want the truth? The truth is, I’ve been to hell and back and it’s been no easy journey. And while I have loved ones who may encourage me along the way, ultimately it’s my path to walk alone. So I take inspiration where I can, gain strength and wisdom along the way, but sometimes I just have to let it out. And just breathe.

Tomorrow is a new day.

They Say

They say that adversity doesn’t build character, it reveals it. They also say things like 'when life hands you lemons, make lemonade’ or ‘when times get tough, the tough get going’. They say a lot. And to be perfectly honest, they for the most part have no idea what they are talking about. Life is not a cliche. It’s hard, is what it is. When you think about it, most of our lives are spent in an endless cycle of shit to deal with it, sprinkled intermittently with happy moments that help get us through the bad times. I mean right now at this moment, I can sit here, and thinking of people I know, count among them ones who are going through a divorce, a bad breakup, a sick child, unemployment, their own ill health, family drama, and financial struggles. And that’s just off the top of my head. I, myself, am currently dealing with a broken down car that needs a new transmission. So what gets us through this parade of broken cars and broken marriages? Is it faith in a higher power? Inner strength? The will to live? Lemonade? Or is it perhaps a combination of these things? I truly do not know. Because when you put pen to paper, life sometimes seems like a hard row to hoe.

But we do. We overcome. We keep on keepin’ on until the wheels fall off. Since my diagnosis, I’ve had many people tell me that I’m a strong person for handling this load. I don’t know, maybe I am. Maybe some people just throw in the towel and give up. Or maybe I’m really not that exceptional at all. Given the same circumstance, I tend to think most people wouldn’t do things much differently than I have.

Someone I know very recently passed away from breast cancer. It affected me in ways that other deaths have not. We were not particularly close; I just knew her from around, as often happens in small towns. She and I had some of our radiation/chemo treatments during the same time this past fall, and got to know one another a little better. The thing I remember most was her unending positivity. Even after the cancer spread to her other breast, she remained steadfast in her faith. The last time I saw her was at the grocery store where she worked. We talked for a few minutes, she hugged me, and said, “We will get through this.” That was just a few short weeks ago. Her death seemed so sudden. She was hospitalized due to complications, and then that was it. She was gone. I am still struggling with why. To say that it was unfair, seems trivial and meaningless. Of course it’s not fair. If life were fair, good guys would always win the girl, and mean people would be the ones who lose in life. So really even asking why is pointless and gets you nowhere.

So again. What gets us through? I am not a particularly religious person per se, but I am deeply spiritual. I talk to God, and I pray. I also talk to my dogs. And my cat. And my parents. And my friends. I guess perhaps this is what gets me through the hard times. But the truth is, I am content. Probably more so now than I ever have been. I have no job, a busted car, and my health is somewhat uncertain. But as I sit here in this moment, laptop in front of me, under soft lamplight, with the windows open so I can hear the sound of rain and thunder, the dogs and Kitty Von Mouser sleeping, sharing my story, I am at peace. I have made my peace with life, and death, and the ups and downs in between. And I hope that no matter where life takes me, or throughout the inevitable pitfalls that are sure to come my way, that I am able to maintain this sense of peace and contentment. And remain just as steadfast in my will to overcome and persevere; doing what I love with the people I love. In the end, we all perish. But our spirit can live on. As they say, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

I went to Birmingham, AL this past weekend, and met up with some friends who live in the area. I lived in Birmingham for about seven years and it was great being back. We took a nostalgic walk through the Five Points area in Southside, seeing what has changed and the places that are still the same. I had forgotten how beautiful the architecture is. Most of the buildings; apartments, houses, stores, churches, are very old, and I love their charm. One of our friends we stayed with lives in an official “historical home” and it's quite lovely. Among the things I do not miss are the occasional wafts of some terrible smell that sneaks out of nowhere and attacks your nasal passages and the never-ending traffic. But bigger cities do have their perks - an abundance of shoppes, boutiques, restaurants, and availability of a variety of beers, groceries that are not often found in small towns, and unique bars and other watering holes. And in my humble opinion, Southside is the best area in Birmingham. It’s a great mix of college students, artists, and other interesting folks. And a few bums too. 

I moved back to my hometown in February 2007, and have only made a handful of trips to B’ham since my departure. I don’t think I so much left Birmingham, but more accurate to say I ran like hell. When I first left my little hometown, I was 20 years old and had moved to Florence, AL to attend The University of North Alabama (UNA). I left with my middle finger in the air with no intentions of ever returning on a permanent basis. It wasn’t bad growing up here, but I had bigger plans in life, and felt suffocated by the smallness. Everybody knows everyone and also “their business”. So off I went to face the world on my own. I’m a firm believer that everyone should leave their hometown at least once in life, whether to return or not, but getting out and seeing other parts of the world gives us a better perspective on things I think. I don’t know if I have ever heard anyone who regretted leaving. 

After a year in Florence, I packed my bags and headed West, where I worked in the gift shop in Yellowstone National Park for possibly the best 5 - 6 months I’ve ever spent anywhere. After leaving Yellowstone, I was eager to finish college and get my degree. So I did. Which is how I ended up in Birmingham; as a student at UAB. My boyfriend, who I would later marry, and I shared an apartment. I worked and went to school, and life was good. In May of 2003, we tied the knot. We had also moved to our second apartment, just a few blocks from the first one. Not long after we were married, I severed my achilles tendon (that’s another story for another time) and spent the next several months in a cast followed by physical therapy. That was probably the beginning of the downhill slide. In 2005, my husband was diagnosed with Cor triatriatum. A congenital heart defect, it is extremely rare and results in the heart being divided into five chambers instead of four, due to a membrane separating either the left or right atrium. He had open heart surgery to correct it. My time was divided into working in the graphics department at Infinity Insurance during the day, and playing nurse in the evenings. It was exhausting, both physically and mentally. The surgery was successful, but my husband went through a long period of severe depression. He spent most of the next year wearing a bathrobe. He became increasingly moody and I became increasingly more fatigued. 

In January 2006, our Boxer, Punchinella was born and she came to live with us when she was six weeks old. She was (and still is) my baby. My marriage was already in trouble by that point, but she brought a new joy to our home, and for awhile I thought we might make it. We went through couple’s therapy with a counselor, and it helped a little, but after the counseling was over, we soon fell back into our old patterns. The arguments were increasing in frequency and intensity. At one time, my husband had a successful landscaping business, but after the heart surgery, the business suffered as well. So for awhile I was the breadwinner in the family. Then, in September of 2006, I lost my job as well. Adding fuel to the fire was a dispute between us and our landlord, a liar and crook, which resulted in a court case. The dream was over. What had started as a beautiful adventure, filled with hope and ambition, had turned to bitter feelings, resentment, hurt and anger. 

It was my husband’s idea to move back to my hometown. He had visited home with me, and to him, it was a quaint and charming town, sort of "Mayberryesque". So once again, I packed my bags, only this time I was coming home. The town I once vowed never to live in again, I now returned to, quite anxious to leave Birmingham and the terrible series of events that had tainted my feelings for the city. All of a sudden, that small town that I had escaped nine years before, didn’t seem like such a horrible place after all. I have friends and family here, and I’ve enjoyed living here again for the past 8 years. I can’t say that I won’t leave again, but if I do, I know I will always have a place to come home to, when the world outside gets a little too overwhelming. 

Ostomy, Schmostomy

During the summer of ’99, my then boyfriend (future husband, future ex-husband, and future good friend of mine) travelled to Yellowstone National Park to work for the summer. We stayed until the end of the summer season, which was mid-October and then came back home. Having been gone from home so long, we were anxious to make the trip back. We took turns driving in an effort to cover more ground quickly, and it was during a stretch of driving through Iowa that I was up at the wheel. If you’ve never driven through Iowa, then don’t. I don’t care what the geography books say, Iowa is the longest state in the U.S. Nothing but fields of wheat, or corn, or whatever it was, for as long as the eye can see. Here we are heading down the interstate surrounded by vast stretches of nothing, when “it" hit me. Stomach cramps. The kind that make you want to double over and cry. Also the kind of cramps that say, “You better find somewhere to pull over soon.” I started to panic. There was no bathroom of any sort anywhere. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I clutched the steering as another spasm hit my stomach. I was pretty sure I was going to shit my pants before we could find civilization. At long last we see an exit sign. No clue what lie ahead, but it didn’t matter. My bowels were on the verge of exploding inside my car. We veer off the interstate on two wheels, and whip into a gas station/restaurant. I ran into the store, and practically yelled at the cashier/waitress that I needed a bathroom. STAT. She pointed in the general direction, and I made a mad dash, only to find myself inside one of the top ten nastiest bathroom stalls I’ve ever been inside. Normally, toilet seats don’t bother me, but this was the exception, with obvious residue on the seat from the last few people to use it. I quickly grabbed handfuls of toilet paper and covered the seat, dropped trou, and managed to get both cheeks on the toilet before having my insides turn out. That was a close one.

The point of this? Everyone poops. Everybody. It is the lowest common denominator for humans. Rich or poor, black or white, male or female; at some point during the day, we all sit on the porcelain throne, pants around our ankles, and drop a deuce. It is one of our most vulnerable moments. Heaven forbid, if intruders burst into your home while you’re making a stinky. However, for me, I no longer have to worry about finding a private room in which to do my business. It’s one of the benefits of having a colostomy. Since my operation, many people have had questions. Like, what does it look like? How does it work? Do I still pass gas? So I thought this would be a good time for an educational piece; we can call it “Life with an Ostomy”.

First there are different types of ostomies: colostomy (large intestine), ileostomy (small intestine), and urostomy (bladder). I have what is known as a sigmoid or descending colostomy, the most common type of ostomy surgery, in which the end of the descending or sigmoid colon is brought to the surface of the abdomen. It is usually located on the lower left side of the abdomen. The end of the remaining portion of the colon is brought out to the abdominal wall to form the stoma.

No, it doesn’t hurt. Now, granted, if someone punched me there, it would, but then again, it hurts to be punched anywhere. And while I’m sure nobody would rush out to get one, there are certain benefits to having one. For example, as I mentioned above, I no longer have to “be somewhere” to do my business. I could be driving through Iowa (but let’s hope I never again have to), having dinner with friends (yes I have, and you never knew), or reading a book on my sofa. It just happens when it happens, with no fuss or mess. Also, as a bonus, I have saved several dollars on toilet paper and wet wipes.

Ostomies have come a long way in the last several years. There are as many different pouching systems as there are electronic video games. Open end pouches, closed pouches, clear, opaque, one-piece, two-piece…. and the list goes on. I have found that the manufacturers of these products are more than happy to send you free samples, so if you should ever find yourself in such a position, I highly recommend getting as many samples as you can until you find something you really like. For me, I prefer a two-piece, closed end pouch. When I was in the hospital I used what they had, which was a one-piece, open end pouch. Of course, back then, at the expense of getting graphic, my poo was very liquid, so it made sense to use an open end pouch that can be drained. However, nowadays, my poo is more solid, much as it is for everyone else with normal bowel function, so a closed end pouch is preferable. When it gets full, I simply, peel it off, throw it away, and replace it. I can do this in less than a minute. It’s that easy. One of the reasons I prefer a two-piece pouching system is that I can easily remove the pouch itself (as mentioned above) very quickly and only have to remove the entire system a couple times a week, about every three or four days, although it can last for up to a full week at times. Even with a full system change, it still only take a few minutes. It’s painless, pretty effortless, and I have gotten quite adept at it. It’s now just a part of my normal routine.

Another benefit is that most pouches these days are lined with charcoal filters. This means that when I pass gas, (and yes, I still do) it has no odor. Guess what? I can now say my shit doesn’t stink and actually mean it. Secretly, I always knew I was better than everyone else….. ;) Ha! Just kidding, peeps.

But really, it’s no big deal to me anymore. When they first told me I would have to have one, I thought the world was ending. And to be honest, it was mostly vanity that made me think that. We live in a world where perfection seems to be the goal. Perfect bodies, perfect lives. And all I could think was how horrible it would be to have a bag of poop attached to my stomach. But, after what I have been through, most especially last fall, when I was undergoing radiation, chemo, and had c-diff, I was in so much pain and so sick that I decided a colostomy wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. I lost over twenty pounds in only a couple of months. I was so sick some days that I never got out of bed. I really thought I was dying. And to be honest, I was looking forward to anything that could make the pain go away. And it did. It saved my life.

I have embraced my new appendage. I even have colorful pouch covers made for my by friends, plus a few I ordered online, to wear to the lake or beach or anywhere really. And nobody points and laughs or calls me a freak. I have plans to attend the UOAA (United Ostomy Association of America) in September, where I look forward to meeting others with ostomies, and maybe snagging some more samples to try from the various manufacturers. As I said before, I highly doubt anyone would volunteer to have one, but if you do have to, then you should know that it’s really not that big of a deal. You will adapt. And there is nothing that I could before, that I can’t still do. I can swim, I can jog (I don’t - but I could), I do Yoga, and I still drink beer. I hope this helps to answer some of your questions, but if not, feel free to ask. I will answer as many as I can. Poop on, my fellow humans!

Greetings From Paradise

Hola! If you're reading this, then greetings from the beach. Where life is good today and it's always 5:00. Life really is better at the beach. Vacations are good for the soul. No worries, no cares, nowhere to be on a schedule, no appointments or errands, and it's okay to leave your phone tucked away in a bag or on the charger all day and never even pick it up to see if someone has called. This is my time.

I started a new book today. In a previous post I mentioned my doughnut giving friend had also gifted me with a stack of new books to read. I just started one and already am a huge fan. For all my reading enthusiasts, I strongly urge you to pick up a copy of The World's Largest Man by Harrison Scott Key. I’m only on page 15, and already hooked. The author was born in Memphis, but grew up in Mississippi, or in other words, my neck of the woods. His writing is relatable and his characters are the people I know in my own life. I think anyone who grew up in the South would probably appreciate his prose.

Writing is more fun at the beach too. Sitting here in my gauzy white cover up and sun hat, I can fancy myself as a great literary talent, creating beautiful masterpieces to be treasured forever, perhaps the next William Faulkner. Or maybe I’m just stoned and daydreaming. That’s okay too.

But let me tell you about my friend. The reason I am here. Now. At this moment.

I had texted a couple of girlfriends earlier in the year, and mentioned I wanted to take a trip this summer to Ft. Morgan, AL, with Punchinella, my Boxer and best friend for over nine years. My ex-husband and I brought her down here once, several years ago and she absolutely loved it. If you aren't familiar with Ft. Morgan, then at the expense of exposing it’s secret, thus driving more people here, and in turn losing some of the very reason it is so charming, let me tell you a bit about it. It’s a small community just West of Gulf Shores. There are no large hotels, no touristy restaurants, no raucous bars; just a small group of houses situated on a rather quiet stretch of beach. Quiet, at least compared to other beaches along the Gulf Coast. The big bonus is that the beach here is dog friendly, also a rare find in these parts. So I had decided that since Punchie is closing in on ten years old, the Golden Years in doggy Boxer world, that this would be a good year for us to make a trip down here. So I texted some friends and mentioned it, more to say, if anyone would like to join us please feel free. Lo and behold I get a message back from Tara saying that she had already rented a house here in July, taking her family and her dog, the sweetest little (er, not so little) Pit Bull puppy. He’s about a year and a half, still in full on playful pup mode. She said, “You might as well just come with us, I’ve already got us a house.” Who can say no to that? It’s only our first full day here, but her family has so graciously taken Punchie and I in and made us feel like a part of their group. Tara’s mother is with us, and so is her son and his wife, and their two children; a boy and girl, ages 9 and 7, respectively. The kids are adorable. I won them over within the first hour of getting unpacked by telling them I had brought a big bag of Laffy Taffy, with mixed flavors. They immediately asked if they could have some, and then came back with heaping handfuls after I said they could. Pretty sure we’re BFFs now. Earlier today at the beach, we were pirates and spies, except Tara who was a double agent. Figures. But that’s the kind of person she is. Not a double agent, by the way, but a beautiful and kind soul, who is happy to share her home, her family and her vacation.

So that’s where I am today. For me, vacation has just started. I have an entire week to look forward to. Nights of sleeping with no alarm clock, whether the digital kind or of the hound dog sunrise variety, days when I might enjoy both a beautiful sunrise and sunset on the same day, afternoons sipping on a Corona or Pina Colada, listening to the waves crash onto shore, and nothing on mind but relaxing and enjoying all of the moments with my dog and good company.

The Evolution of My Ass Part 5

The surgery went very well. My lead surgeon came into my room the next day with the good news. "We got it all. 100% margins." Yay!!!!!!!!!! Tumor has been removed. I'm cured. Let's go home.

But the universe had other plans. At first, everything seemed to be as good as it could be. Tumor was removed, margins came back clean, and life was looking up. They started me on a clear liquid diet. The next day or so I moved up to full liquids. That's as far as I made it. On Friday, my surgeon came around and expressed concern about my bowel function, most likely from an ileus which may just be some after affects from the surgery. But just to be sure, they ordered a CT scan of my abdomen. In the meantime, they insisted I needed an NG tube. If you don't know what that is, well, let me tell you it's a tube about the size of drinking straw, only much longer, that they shoved up my nose and down my throat. Completely, absolutely, 100% awful. I cried the entire time they were shoving it in and down me. So did my mom. So did my friend who was there by my side. And I'm pretty sure my surgeon was on the verge of tears before it was over.

Around ten or so Friday evening, maybe later, my surgeon walks into my room with some bad news. "Your bowels are obstructed and we have to do surgery immediately. Like right now." Oh shit. What? I just had surgery. So, there we go again. A mere four days after my initial surgery, they cut me open again to fix a kink in my bowels. Holy hell. So back to square one as far as recovery goes. Clear liquids, then on to full liquids. And then, guess what. Yep. Another ileus. Fortunately, this time that's all it was. Just my digestive tract dealing with the trauma. Another NG tube. This time, however, I insisted they give me drugs beforehand, to ease the pain. And no surgery this time either. At this point, we're closing in on the two week mark, whereas initially we were expecting no more than a week of hospital recovery time.

My mother, God bless her, was there the entire time. I love my mother. She has been by my side during the worst of the worst times during this past year, hospital stay being no exception. My dad was a total trooper. He went to work during the day and drove to Memphis to spend time with my mother and me in the evening. We had to convince him to stay at home a few nights just to catch up on some rest. My friends came to visit, and those brief interludes helped keep my spirits up. Again I reiterate that I know I have good friends, most especially when they volunteered to shave my legs for me. Two weeks without a razor can get pretty hairy. ;) I even had a few surprise visits from some old high school friends. It was great seeing them and catching up. Although one (whose name shall remain anonymous) brought these unbelievably delicious looking doughnuts which I couldn't eat. My hospital guests, however, devoured them - and right in front of me at that.  Okay, so maybe my friends aren't that nice after all...

But I digress. Back to hospital hell. As it turns out, if you have C-Diff once, your chances of getting it again goes way up. It's just one of those things. And with the antibiotics they used to prevent infections from surgery, I ended up with yet another case of it. C-Diff is highly contagious, and I was put in quarantine, which meant I couldn't leave my room at all, not even for strolls down the corridor. They called in an infectious disease doctor, that I swear, looked like the perfect example of "the mad scientist" - think Doc Brown in Back to the Future.

Cabin Fever set in rather quickly. I was pretty sure I was going to lose my mind in very dramatic fashion, and start clawing at the door like a caged animal. Practically every single nurse on that floor had been assigned to me at some point. I was getting a reputation as the patient who just won't leave, though I promise it wasn't by choice. Never take your nurses for granted. They work their butts off and many times for ungrateful patients or hurried doctors. I got to trade places with one of the newbies for a moment, and held HER hand as she cried (just a little) from the stress of the job. We've all been there.

21 Days Later.
February 14, 2015 I was released from my prison and sent home. It was absolutely the best Valentine's present I could have asked for. A new chapter in my life was just beginning.

Author's Note - Anonymous doughnut bearing friend has since redeemed herself by sending me a fantastic selection of books to read. I hope you're reading this, dear. And thank you.

Also, I want to say thank you to all of you who have been following my story so far. I feel like much of this has perhaps been rushed, and I apologize. It's that part of me that wants to catch everyone up to speed, but in a hurry to fast forward in time to now. Writing of the past is sometimes hard when there is so much going on in the present that I want to express. So forgive me. But I sincerely appreciate the encouragement I have been given. Over the course of writing this blog, there have been times when I have gotten quite emotional writing it, remembering some of the most difficult times of my life thus far.  I have tried to interject some lightheartedness into my story, but this is in no way meant to diminish anyone's struggle with cancer or other disease. For me, humor has been a way to cope with the dark times, and I hope that it is taken that way.

As always, thanks for listening.
Jennifer

The Evolution of My Ass Part 4

It was time to start preparing for surgery. I met with a couple of surgeons and found one I really liked in Memphis. He also arranged for me to meet two other surgeons who would be assisting on the surgery, a gynecological surgeon and a plastic surgeon. I really liked all of them. It’s funny how we stereotype people with certain careers. For example, prior to this, whenever someone mentioned a plastic surgeon my mind automatically conjured up an image of the guys from Nip/Tuck - arrogant, womanizing, assholes who imagined themselves as almost Godlike. My plastic surgeon was nothing like that. He is an older gentlemen with the friendliest smile who hugs my neck every single time I go in to see him for a follow up appointment, and always asks how my mom is doing. He calls himself the fender and bumper guy of the surgical world. ;) 

Not long after I finished radiation I was playing on Google and came across some medical info about side effects that basically stated how my ovaries were most likely fried from the radiation. I asked my radiation oncologist about it, and he very nonchalantly said, “Well, yeah, so?” I’m like, um, you might could have told me that beforehand. His response was that it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have changed anything. This was what had to be done. Okay, maybe so, but I would rather not find out my potential baby birthing days are over on Google. But there it was. My ovaries were nothing but raisins now. That, combined with the potential of the cancer spreading to my female organs, the determination to have a full hysterectomy in addition to the colon resection and tumor removal was made. Although let’s be honest, I didn’t have much choice. As a woman, this was a hard pill to swallow. I’ve never been one to just really, really want kids, as is obvious by the fact I’m in my late 30’s with no children, and have had plenty of opportunities if I had so chosen. But to have that choice stripped from you, well, that’s a whole other ballgame. It definitely led to some depression and a feeling of not being in control of my life anymore. Men may not understand this, but I can guarantee most of the women reading this will know exactly what I am talking about. 

So I signed the dotted line giving them permission to not only repair the sewage disposal but remove the plumbing too. 

A date was set: Monday, January 26, 2015. D-Day. For me anyway. To say I was scared out of my mind is a slight understatement. This was a big surgery. A huge surgery. Not to over exaggerate, but about as major a surgery as one can get. So yeah, I was scared. But after meeting the surgical team, I knew I was in the best hands possible. 

Sunday, January 25, 2015. My parents and I checked into the Hilton Homewood Suites in Germantown and began the waiting game. I had to do yet another colon cleanse. Get those pipes all squeaky clean. There it was in the hotel bathroom that I shat for the last time. Or at least as normal shatting goes. No doubt it was one for the record books. I believe I briefly touched on just how terrible the colon cleansing process is, and this was no different. Let’s just say I managed to somehow get poo on me, the shower, the shower curtain and even the walls of the bathroom. I did try my best to clean up after myself but really there’s only so much you can do while spraying liquid poop in all directions. I left a nice tip for the maid.

5:00 am, Monday: We check into the Germantown Methodist Hospital. This is how I know I have the best friends in the world - because they were all there. There were so many people there for me, I looked like a rap star with my entourage. There were some tears, and praying and hand holding. Finally, the moment came. The surgeon greeted us with final words about the procedure and a nurse wheeled me back - floodgates opened, and I cried most of the way back. Once I got back to the pre-surgery holding room, I calmed down. They got me ready for an epidural (not just for pregnant women apparently). Good stuff. The nurse was really nice and asked if I wanted to listen to any music. I requested “Southern Cross” by Crosby, Stills and Nash. She downloaded it and gave me her iPhone to hold so I could listen to it. The last thing I remember is singing along (probably loudly) while they wheeled me back to the operating room, just smiling and singing to everyone in the room. It was a packed house. I asked the nurse to please let my Dad know I was going under to one of his favorite songs. And from what I hear, she did just that. And then, I went to sleep.