OW! Fuck that hurts!
I gritted my teeth at the intense pain coming from my stomach.
This was the part I had been dreading for so long, the recovery. It was as if I'd done this before. Wait, I have done this before. It's deja vu.
Why the hell am I going through this again?
Good question.
As my eyes continually closed and opened in my anesthetic fog, the answer came to me when the surgeon came to discuss the procedure.
Apparently, my stomach resembled swiss cheese, with one large hole, and a smattering of other small ones all over.
I had eleven hernias.
Man, that's metal. My hernias go to eleven!
Join me, won't you, through a year-long journey fraught will emotion, desperation, run arounds, setbacks and near-death experiences.
This is Hernia 2: A Love Story.
TOUCHING DEATH IN THE CROTCH
Say, this hernia thing sounds familiar doesn't it?
If you've read back into my growing essay catalog, you may have come across an essay called Touching Death In The Crotch, which has a similar premise. If you want more detail on that situation, I recommend you peruse that, however I'll also sum it up quickly for you right here.
In August of 2008, I found myself in the emergency room with the worst stomach pains I'd ever experienced.
It turns out my pain-inducing tummy-buddy was an incarcerated abdominal hernia. (Shit, and I was all prepared to be a mother). Think of your intestines getting kinked like a hose, then caught in your stomach wall. Interested?
The doctors told me that if I would have waited any longer, my intestines would have ruptured, and I would most likely have gone to your uncle's farm up north with Mr. Kitty and grandma.
You know, "fucking dead".
After almost a week of recovery in the hospital re-training my body to walk, and defecate, I enjoyed a pill-popping couch-based pain and depression party at my dad's house. (How nice of him to throw a party in my honor).
After a month or so, I was back to my normal, self-loathing, sardonic, near-sucicial self.
It was an incredibly dramatic and life-changing event that I could now put behind me for good.
Right?
Well, mirroring the modern movie business, the first hernia did so well that it demanded a sequel.
THE DISCOVERY
With my near-death experience behind me (snicker), I got back to the normal grind (sans bump).
I found a new job at a restaurant, which was rather timely, as I was about to go broke.
A manly badass scar running down my lower abdominal wall was a constant reminder of my Great Stomach Rebellion. (Or an extremely un-manly cesarean scar).
It served as a relic of a terrible historical disaster, keeping my self-image and emotions in check. Thanks Hernia™!!
Jump to Superbowl Sunday in February '09. (Do that).
I was working at my restaurant for a special football party. (No, no. American football). Over the last several days I had developed a gnarly cold, and a deep chest cough. Ignoring the cheering from the party by engrossing myself in a book about the history of American secularism (I like to participate, you know), my cough became extremely severe, feeling like a butter knife scraping against my lungs.
The next morning as I stepped out of the shower (yep, totally naked), I just happened to glance at my stomach as I dried myself with an old towel.
What the hell was that?
Was that a slight bulge under my scar?
Was it just, maybe, perhaps, the way the light was hitting me?
Oh shit, that's really a bulge.
Oh my god. Not again. Not again.
Seriously?
I just fucking did this a few months ago!
In an emotional panic I called my dad up and told him the bad news.
You know what I needed at this time in my life, especially after a recent ended relationship, a near-death surgery escapade, almost going broke, and then my cat dying?
Another huge setback.
IT'S HOPELESS
The next few weeks were probably my lowest low, damn near ever (which says a lot considering 2008). I had just been through an absolutely traumatic situation not more than a few months ago, which I believed to be completely taken care of, and now it was back.
Emotionally, it felt as if this was going to be my life path, what I was going to expect for the rest of my days, which is a bit of an exaggeration of the situation, but still felt overpoweringly true. (Stupid irrational emotions!).
I felt helpless, and I wanted to give up.
In everything I did, I could feel it. It expanded when I ate, leaving me fearful of an internal rupture or explosion. Digestion was ever more present as I could feel my insides working in a way that was strange and uncomfortable. Sleep brought no respite from the hernia either, as from time to time I would succumb to massive, painful pressures in my abdomen, waking me up out of a pleasant dream, and sending me into hysterics, questioning whether I should be speeding down to the emergency room again, or just wait it out.
The doctor's words repeated in my head on autopilot, "If you feel anything like what you felt before, come right down to the ER, don't wait. Watch for swelling, discoloration..." basically I was becoming a paranoid hypochondriac.
Every little sound, or feeling from my gut scared the shit out me. Almost dying from the last one, I was easily frightened for the second round.
I felt broken in almost every way. I was afraid to lift anything, drink alcohol or coffee, or even socialize (which I don't do much of as it is, so I guess that is kind of a moot point).
To drive the impact home, I would not be able to move to another position at my day job, due to lifting requirements, nor could I find a new job for the same reasons.
Basically I was trapped within myself, limited and confined to constant worry and fear. I was afraid to really live.
"Why keep on living if I'm just going to be continually beset by shit time and time again without a chance to really build my life back up again?" I thought.
This would bring me to my almost-end-point, when I began to (seriously this time) contemplate suicide.
THE REAL PROBLEM
On my last hernia, the emergency one, I received a ridiculously lucky deal when the hospital waved the entirety of my near $60,000 bill due to my sub-poverty financial status, leaving me with only a few thousand dollars owed. This was an extremely fortunate situation, for once. (Obviously).
I spoke to the surgeon who performed my last operation, and asked him if he would be able to help me again, and though he said he would be glad to do it, he gave me some disappointing news.
This new hernia was not an emergency, or immediately life threatening, therefore I would not be able to work with the financial department at the hospital to negotiate such a steep slash to the price. It was an elective surgery, therefore, no aid.
He told me if I were to get some insurance he would do it in a heartbeat, but alas, I live the pathetic life of a college student, sans school.
So here I was still reeling from the impact of the previous year, I was hit again, and had no way to financially take care of it.
Was I going to be stuck with this forever?
I can't afford health insurance, at any price, and wouldn't I be denied anyway due to this being a pre-existing condition? Stupid fucking insurance companies!
What about my dad? Couldn't he help?
If my situation would have happened a few years ago, perhaps he could have. Sadly for both of us, he was hit quite hard in the economic recession that year, and lost all of the money that could have gone to making me unbroken. (What's his money for, if not for me?)
Fuck! How the hell am I going to fix myself?
This absolutely hopeless. Might as well kill myself. (And I did. The end).
OKAY, SO I'M INDIGENT
For a good while, I avoided researching anything about my hernia, or looking for solutions to fix my problem. The overwhelming helplessness and depression caused by the appearance of this second physical problem prevented me from bringing myself to do anything about it. I couldn't even face it.
Productive? No.
Human? I suppose so.
My mother, feeling like she was unable to do anything for me during my emergency situation, was determined to help me this time. After some phone calls to her sister, she informed me of a few programs that may exist in Colorado for broke losers like me. (She didn't actually say broke loser, though that would have made this section more humorous).
After a long, confusing search through user-unfriendly government websites and databases, cursing to the heavens about how anyone looking for medical help could ever even find it, I finally stumbled upon what I was looking for:
*Cue angelic choir*
The Colorado Indigent Care Program, or CICP.
Basically it acts as health insurance for homeless people or those who make shit money (hey, that's me!). Honestly people, this is the kind of health insurance we should all have. No annual fee, and you will never pay more than 10% of your total income in a year.
How awesome is that?! (Make a pie chart).
I thought to myself, "Why would anyone want to make a decent income and pay for shitty health insurance, when they can be broke, and get on this awesome program?"
(Oh yeah, people like to buy stuff. Never mind).
After several annoying tries to go down in person and sign up for the program (I had to come back again at 7am and wait in line just to have an appointment) I was finally processed and officially able to do something about this emotionally, and physically crippling hernia.
I felt lucky to finally be on this super cheap program, something which made it financially possible to take care of this second Abdomination (heh heh, wooo! Good one me!).
Now I should go see a specialist, and get my surgery right?
YEAH!
Nope.
To be continued in part 2...
Related blogs:
Too Early For Suicide?
2008: The Worst Year Of My Life
Touching Death In The Crotch
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