On Wednesday morning at 4:00 AM, I woke up to my alarm and took a shower using a special body scrub that had been given to me by my doctor. I took the pills I was allowed to take with my last gulp of water for a while. We were out the door by 6:00 and at the hospital by 6:30, downtown Atlantic City. I had been to this hospital once before, when we had just moved here and I did not have a doctor to write a prescription for me. That morning, however, I was having surgery. My roommate dropped me off at the front door, and I found the surgical suite without any problem. I gowned up and within an hour I was under anesthesia.
Apparently there was a small crowd.
I underwent roux-en-y gastrectomy. Behold:
This was a decision a long time coming. I think that I first heard it was an option was during graduate school, when a doctor mentioned it in passing. I had wanted to wait until I had tenure to do it, but that happened in the middle of the pandemic. So I waited. A year later, when we were vaccinated, I got the bar rolling and saw a doctor to consult about it. They envisioned a three month process of prepping and testing; I was only feeling it out to see what the options were. I was not really ready at the end of the summer of 2021 to have the surgery. I planned to do it over winter break. Then omicron came along, and I was not going into a hospital while that was on the loose. So it was delayed, and this time, I decided that work would have to accommodate me. I wrote a week into my syllabuses where I was going to be out.
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