If you’re a regular follower
of my misadventures, you may recall that last summer some guys sliced my head
open in order to rid me of an unwelcome intercranial growth. I chronicled the
lead-up to that surgery in a blog entry entitled “The story of my pituitary tumor, as told by Simpsons screengrabs.” That post proved surprisingly popular, so I figure I might as
well commemorate the surgery’s one-year anniversary with a grossly derivative
sequel about my progress ever since.
I went into surgery early in
the morning of May 21 and woke up later that evening, surprisingly free of pain
but dogged by an intense pressure in my sinuses. That only made sense, as said
sinuses were packed tightly with gauze.
Over the course of the night,
I was visited by my wife and a hazy rotation of doctors who explained that I
hadn’t had a pituitary tumor after all. Instead, they’d removed something
called a Rathke’s cleft cyst, a weird little pustule that is apparently virtually
indistinguishable from the tumor they’d originally diagnosed until one is
actually inside the patient’s head. When I heard of the misdiagnosis, I was
initially concerned that I’d just had an extraneous, incredibly invasive
surgery.
But it turned out the cyst
carried all the same risks as the tumor, so it didn’t alter much about the
procedure. The worst part of the entire process was the night after the
surgery, during which I was allowed no liquids by mouth. Not being able to
drink for 24 hours is a drag no matter what, but when your nasal passages are
blocked off and mouth-breathing is your only option, you start
wondering whether it’s physically possible for someone to die of cottonmouth.
I eventually complained
enough that my nurses allowed me some ice chips, but I overdid it and
wound up vomiting up my scanty water supply. After that they cut me off from
water and left me to brief, uneasy dreams, most of which involved me guzzling
unholy amounts of sodas, juices and other potables. It got so bad that when the
nurse in charge of my sponge bath left the room so I could wash my genitals, I
quickly stuffed my mouth with alcohol wipes and sucked out as much of the vile,
burning liquid as I could. This was not one of my prouder moments.
But I got through it and quickly regained my ability to drink water. I spent a week in a hospital bed watching
30 Rock and Better Off Ted reruns and the NBA playoffs, pining away for my wife and son. My bed afforded me a lovely view of the bluffs of Saint Paul, a nice perk that also enhanced my loneliness and cabin fever something fierce.
Finally I was discharged to the comfort of my home. As wonderful as it was to be back, I still had a
lot of recuperation ahead of me. For one thing, I was ridiculously easily
fatigued. For the first couple of weeks I could only write in short bursts, as
anything more pushed me to the verge of passing out. Even watching movies was
physically taxing. I also left the hospital with a case of diabetes insipidus,
a temporary form of diabetes that affects how the body processes liquids.
Basically, I was on a constant cycle of being desperately thirsty and then
desperately needing to urinate. As the toilets in my house are on the second
floor and in the basement, I counted myself lucky that I never passed out from
the exertion of peeing.
Eventually all of that
passed, and the only lingering effect I was left with was considerable weight
gain. This was a real downer to me, as I’d dropped 30 pounds the previous
summer via dietary changes and a tough workout regimen. Banned for three months
from any kind of physical exertion more strenuous than walking, I was more or
less helpless against my appetite and packed 15 of those pounds right back on.
I know that’s not that big a deal at all, but I felt pretty grotesque by summer’s
end.
And here we are a year later,
and all is well. Looking back, that’s really not all that much of a narrative.
I had some surgery, it took a while for me to recover, but eventually I was
back to normal. Whenever I run into people I haven’t seen for a while, they ask
how I’m feeling. It always takes me a second to figure out why they’re asking,
because the surgery is so far from my mind. It makes me feel silly and a little embarrassed, to tell the truth. I know plenty of people who’ve been through much worse in the past year. But the fact that people still ask
just reminds me that I’m lucky enough to have a lot of folks who care about me. All I can do is say thanks, everybody, for your support and thoughts. It was a
life-changing event to be certain, and one year later I’m happy to say I’m
Big ups to LardLad.com and their invaluable cache of Simpsons imagery.
