Palm-sized support system

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After having gastric bypass Feb. 22, I woke up alone and in pain.

My father had to speed back to our home in eastern Colorado to take care of my little brother, who was having a medical emergency. My mother was being wheeled into her own surgery, and my friends were all in class. Still groggy and sobbing from the pain, I asked my nurse to find my phone.

As she rolled her eyes, I sent out a mass text: Alive. Worst pain of my life. Within seconds, all my friends were in the palm of my hand, and I wasn’t alone anymore.

I hadn’t planned to tell anyone that I was getting gastric bypass. In a town that believes that the path to a healthy weight is only a trip to Whole Foods and a Bolder Boulder away, I didn’t expect anyone to understand why I’d chosen a procedure that so many deem “lazy.” Soon, however, I decided that my journalistic curiosity wouldn’t permit me to keep secrets through what would be a life-changing experience.

Last week, I was given the opportunity to tell the world “I’m fat. And guess what, it’s not all rainbows and cupcakes.” I was blown away by the support I saw from all over the country.

So I decided to document the events surrounding my surgery. It wasn’t long before I learned that narcotics and cameras don’t mix well, so my usual shutterbug methods were out. With my laptop buried inside my suitcase, I turned to my last option: my phone. I didn’t know how much I would remember of the process, so I texted friends all along, recording everything.

From the mundane, to the laughable, to the “How high was I?,” I opened up my private life to future journalistic scrutiny.

They gave me a plus-size hospital gown with a breast pocket to nowhere.

Watching U.S. v. Canada curling. Argued with my anesthesiologist about the merits of curling. If he doesn’t like curling, he can’t be in my surgery.

My nurse: “I’m going to put this medicine in your IV. Just a warning: It might make your vagina itch.” WTF??

And with that little bit of insight, my friends were cut off as my nurse took my phone away and rushed me into the operating room.

As the nurse woke me, a wave of pain swept over my entire body. My throat raw from the breathing tube, I gasped. “My back…” Between my sobs of the worst pain of my life, the faceless nurse explained that some of the anesthesia must have gotten trapped in my back and shoulder.

Painkillers flow through my IV and I tune the nurse out as she asked me questions and prods me with cold fingers. I consider begging them to just put me back under, and while I’m asking myself why I let anyone do this to me, the painkillers knock me out.

I again woke alone to find about a dozen new text messages asking for updates. My nurse still didn’t understand my attachment to my phone. “You’re on painkillers, and texting with an IV in your hand can’t be easy!” But not only was my texting plan my gateway to all the people who couldn’t be with me, it was also acting as my memory.

No, really, Cameron. I’m not high. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

The texts have gotten more positive since coming home. I’m recovering well and already seeing the weight slip off. On a diet of milk and water, it will be about another month before I’m eating solid food again, which brings about its own challenges.

Where I used to go days without eating (during the more unhealthy phases of college), being physically unable to eat has spurred cravings like I’ve never had before. With texture as my primary dietary restriction, I’m counting down the days until I can have a quarter cup of nice, crunchy salad followed by two bites of chocolate cake.

But my support system is still in the palm of my hand.

Recovery’s a bitch, but I can’t believe I’m already seeing results! It’s actually becoming a reality!

Contact CU Independent Editor-in-chief Danielle Alberti at Danielle.alberti@colorado.edu.