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The surgeon, an Army doctor with short gray hair and a rather brusque, “just the facts” manner of speaking, which (originally) did not exactly create an aura of lovability about her, told me that stomach surgery was the second most painful surgery a human suffers only behind open-heart surgery. Yikes! Apparently there are three layers of muscle in your stomach (by “stomach”, I mean the whole general abdominal area. Not the medical meaning) that cause a HUGE amount of pain if they are sliced open with a scalpel. Also, these three layers of muscles are engaged for almost EVERYTHING. I can remember laying in the hospital bed, trying not to move (because it hurt) but also wanting to press the button for a shot of morphine with my thumb. Just barely moving my thumb would shoot pain through my whole body.

These three layers of muscle were sliced open. She told me this as her way of “apologizing” for “just having to open me up and see what was wrong.” She went on to explain that my large intestine had wrapped around itself creating a blockage, something like the end of a sausage, and if she had not made the seven-inch incision on the lower half of my abdomen, eventually all the toxins passing through my intestines would continue to build up behind this blockage causing my intestine to swell like a balloon. If the doctor had not cut me open, the “balloon” would have eventually burst and all the toxins would have flooded my body and I would have gone into Sepsis (I don’t know if one “goes into” Sepsis or not, but this is just the way I remember it in my mind. I apologize if the terminology is wrong) and died. My surgeon brusquely told me I was about an hour from certain death. She was happy things had gone well and I would be fine. “Any questions?” “No?” “Ok, great. I will check in tomorrow.” Although I certainly wished her bedside manner was a bit softer (more than once, definitely), I could not have loved that woman more. She saved my life! Twice!

This is the story of the first time. For three weeks after this first stomach surgery, when people would ask me what it was like, I would simply say this, “If I had to go through that again knowing what I know now and feeling what I am feeling now, I might prefer to die.” Of course, part of this statement was hyperbole. I just wanted people to feel shock and sympathy for how much pain and trauma was involved in something like this. But there was truth as well. This first surgery and all the experiences attached to this experience brought me as close to Hell on this Earth as I ever wished to come. For three weeks, I truly did contemplate whether I would be strong enough to “choose” to live if the choice involved the same amount of suffering. Exactly three weeks later, that choice was made for me. I would be in the same hospital facing the same surgery, but this time I would be awake for the worst part. The dreaded NG tube… If you have never experienced this, be thankful. If you have, I am sorry and I offer you my sympathy. This is my story.

I was brought to the hospital around 3:30 am by ambulance after I had crawled to my roommates bedroom and asked him to call 911. From 3:30 am until 9:30 am tests were done and more tests were done, and still nothing happened. The nurse, who I would meet again three weeks later, would come again and again to my bedside and explain that they just could not figure out what was happening. More tests were needed.

Three weeks later, when I met this same nurse again, I was much more calm and in less pain, and I apologized for my behavior the first time we met. He looked at me with amazement and said, “No need for any apologies. I can only guess how much pain you were in. Your heart rate wasn’t even on the monitor because it was beating so quickly. I am sorry we could not give you any medication but we needed to know what was happening before we could give you any pain relief. I had never seen anything like that before.” I responded, “Yea, but either way I was a jerk. I know I said some things I did not mean. I know you were the one who suffered most of my wrath. I just didn’t understand why you weren’t taking away the pain. I wasn’t thinking so clearly. I am sorry.” “No worries. I am glad to see you are doing better, but I did not expect to see you back. What’s going on?” (Next week’s story)

The only way I can describe the pain I was feeling that night is to say it felt as if a very large animal, perhaps a bear or a lion, was slowly digging their claws deeper and deeper into the middle of my belly and then, just as slowly, trying to rip me apart. The pain I experienced that night was intense, to say the least. Intense enough for me to consider death as possibly the better option. Even so, even with pain I thought I could not withstand, the pain I suffered is not what haunts me about that night.

To all the nurses out there who have done this procedure to themselves or their co-workers and/or classmates during nursing school, I can only say I have no idea where you find the bravery or the skill, but I am thankful for your expertise. Then, just as now, I am so thankful there are nurses in this world. You are the best! If I am honest, every time I have spent time in the hospital, I have always walked out the doors with a HUGE crush on at least one of the nurses. Thank you, nurses! However, I will end this story by admitting I am less thankful there are NG tubes in this world. For this first surgery, I was lucky enough to be unconscious when this tube was inserted. Three weeks later, for the second surgery, I was not so lucky, in many different ways.