It's
been 46 days since I've had Alfred put in—such an important
anniversary—and life had been interesting, better, the same, and
different, all wrapped up into one. I never went into the gastric
neurostimulator surgery thinking that my life would be back to
normal. I never went into it thinking that I would get better—there
is no such thing with Gastroparesis. I went into it hoping for relief
and you know what? I've gotten some. By no stretch of the imagination
is it perfect. There have been a couple of days within those 46 where
I just wanted to curl up and die...but did you notice that I only
said “a couple”? It used to be pretty much every day.
I
still find myself not all that interested in food—which I knew
Alfred wouldn't help—and struggling to eat the food in front of me.
The game of eenie meenie miney mo between water and food is fought
every day because, if I drink too much, then I won't eat. If I eat,
then I won't drink...so I have to try and find that balance. Here's a
hint:: I haven't found it quite yet. I have mastered the art of the
hip-hitch when I sit—no, I'm not tooting—otherwise, Alfred pokes
me in the hip or the ribs. My surgeon said that there's only a small
space between my ribs and hip so they found the best place possible
and that's where they put the “pocket” that Alfred sits in. I
know that it's just going to take time to get used to, so pardon the
way I'm sitting.
Slowly
I've made connections to when I've had my bad days, like after
playing tennis—yes, tennis—at work with my student, playing
football with him—yes, football—and holding little babies and
passing them back and forth and to and fro. I'm discovering that I
haven't quite recovered enough to do that...just yet. I'm wanting
Alfred to launch me into the Olympics or something when I need to
stop and wait for him to just get me through lunch! Small steps.
Maybe
that should be my motto: Small steps...but I think I'll go
with.................... ba na na na na BATMAN!
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