I haven’t posted too much on my recovery, because it’s pretty boring and gross. It’s mostly sleeping too much or being in some sort of gastrointestinal distress. Honestly, it’s a lot of hoping to poop, or at least hoping to poop in some sort of normal fashion without a lot of drama. Recovery from a lot of major illnesses or surgeries reduces you to an infant, with an existence that revolves around sleeping, eating and pooping. This post won’t be graphic, but if you’re uncomfortable reading about digestive issues—and pooping—then you should probably stop reading.
Still here? Good. I myself have been pretty comfortable talking about my gastrointestinal tract and distresses ever since I spent a few months volunteering in Mexico in the summer of 1995 with a program called Amigos de las Americas. The nonprofit has chapters all over the U.S., where high school and college-age kids train for months and then go to various places in Latin America to volunteer in different projects. When I was a volunteer, for example, a few of the things you could do included going to Ecuador to vaccinate dogs, or go do educational things in Paraguay and Costa Rica, or go dig latrines in the Dominican Republic. I went to towns near Guanajuato, Mexico, to make estufas lorenas, stoves that were better for your lungs, and also to talk about dental health and distribute things to make cement floors that would be more sanitary. Most of us got a little bit sick while we were there, no matter how many precautions we took. After experiencing long bouts of gastrointestinal distress, you get pretty comfortable discussing it. Sometimes, now, I forget and say too much or maybe describe something too vividly and I have to remind myself that not everyone is as comfortable with discussions of bowel happenings. I mean, it’s not like I talk about it at dinner in polite company, but I definitely could talk about it at dinner in company not so polite.
I’ve had to allow my digestive system to learn how to work again twice, but this time, with all the re-routing and removal of organs/organ parts, it’s been much more intense. I have so much more respect for babies. No wonder they cry. Gas pain and the general woes of digestion and elimination are no joke. I have nearly been brought to tears. One of the doctors said that some people find the gas and gastrointestinal discomfort to be worse than the incision pain, and I agree. As an adult, it’s kind of humiliating to having your life go back to that of a baby. It’s not as pleasant and relaxing as it sounds. You really have to sleep a lot and devote so much energy to eating and then not throwing up or pooping too much and dealing with gas pain and momentous burps. Poor babies.
It’s been three weeks since my surgery and I’ve been getting impatient, but the doctor reminds me that it’s been only three weeks since my surgery. From the outset, they said full recovery takes six to eight weeks. I had hoped that by now, I would be able to eat with less drama, but I still have gas pain and extremely unreliable bowels. Today, I decided to take the train to the doctor’s office, since it was in the middle of the day and people would be less likely to jostle me or ram into my incision. (Also, I am cheap, and cabs are pricey.) I had my usual quarter of a bagel before I left, but then regretted it. I thought about getting off the bus and catching a cab but I’d already invested $2.75 on my bus ride.
Once I got to the doctor, though, I felt a little better. (One nice thing at the MSKCC offices of doctors dealing with these issues: the exam rooms have bathrooms attached, something that is welcome in many patients’ situations, I’m sure.) He says my incision is healing nicely and I need to be patient. I’m going to feel tired, he reminded me, because my body is healing and devoting all its energy to that, and not much is left over for me. The Whipple is a big deal, and I was sliced open and things were removed and my digestive system was rerouted, so I suppose it’s pretty amazing that recovery takes only a few months.
I’ve been trying to go off the Oxycodone and the laxatives, but it’s a tricky balance. So far, giving up laxatives haven’t been a problem, and I haven’t needed them at all. My doctor suggested I try to eat some Activia for my digestive tract. I still have periods of time when I’m pretty miserable without the Oxycodone, which seemed to have helped with some of the gastrointestinal issues. I’ve been a little nervous about the Oxycodone. I don’t like the idea of taking it, though I never have any of the “fun” that people associate with “good drugs.” I had to take a big dose when I was fending off a pancreatitis attack about a month ago, and I felt better for about a half an hour and then I threw up.
Against my better judgment, I took the train home from the doctor’s office, and of course, the coffee I’d unwisely had while I was there hit my bowels while I was in the bowels of the city. I started to sweat so much, I felt like I was sweating through my jeans. Desperate, I finally had a pain pill hoping it would quell the rumblings in my abdomen. The good thing about the train is that being a sweaty lady popping pills doesn’t even put me into the top 10 percent of weird things happening.
By the time I emerged from the train to catch the bus, I was feeling OK, but still relieved when I saw the bus was coming right away. I made it to my stop and even popped into the community garden when I saw the gate was open to take a photo of my first spring crocus emerging from my plot.
Still, it’s best that I’m near a bathroom at all times. I just had about six of those pretzels with peanut butter inside and my bowels are now a roiling mess and my insides hurt. I feel like someone is pumping air into my belly and I might explode like a cartoon character. It’s seriously loud, whatever is happening. I’m worried I’ve ruined my dinner. It’s been hard to eat when you know it’s going to be followed by so much drama. People always ask what I can eat, and I answer I can eat whatever I want. I’ve been eating pretty normally lately, but just in very tiny portions. I found out the hard way yesterday that if I eat too fast, I’m rewarded with belly pain.
Today’s food, however, could be a quarter of a bagel and six peanut butter pretzel bites, and I can’t let that happen if I want to get my digestive tract on track. Earlier, one of my kittens ate an ant that made its way into the apartment, so surely I can at least find it in me to eat some yogurt.
I’m OK for long stretches of time, with pockets of sleepiness and times when I’m doubled over in gastrointestinal pain or discomfort. That’s how recovery is going—more slowly than I’d like. As the doctor reminded me, I need to be patient. Three weeks down, three to five weeks to go.