Downside of Being Peter Pan: The Recovery Nightmare!

So… I had surgery. On Halloween, naturally. Because if I’m going to do something terrifying, I might as well go full theme. It wasn’t planned to be dramatic, although it lived up to the theme. I got a one-in-a-million diagnosis a couple of years back — can’t win the lottery, but these odds? Sure. Nothing life-threatening or gross, but some internal issues in a zip code no man ever wants on a medical chart. It’s been wrecking my health on a couple of levels — constant pain, discomfort, and the inability to sleep for more than 30 or 40 minutes at a stretch. Not exaggerating. Great for being at sea — absolutely maddening for real life.

Normally in life, something practically has to be hanging off me before I go to the doctor — I have a pretty high threshold for pain and figure everything passes at some point. Nope. Not one of those things. I saw doctors in Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, and South Africa along the way. I really tried to tough it out and not have surgery until after my circumnavigation was complete — I didn’t want anything to deter the adventure or possibly end it. But about four months ago, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. That’s why I rushed through the Caribbean to Panama — I needed to find a safe spot to leave the boat for a prolonged amount of time. Shelter Bay was the safest place. So I flew up here a few months ago to see a general practitioner and schedule the procedure, went back to Panama, and came back up this week to knock it out.

Of course, my best friend — the one I was staying with — had to work out of town, which left me completely on my own for the whole thing. I had no one to drive me, pick me up, or watch me post-surgery. Not ideal. I even had to pay an ambulatory service $200 to bring me home. Mildly pathetic.

I will say my parents offered a hundred times — literally up to the day of surgery — to fly out at a moment’s notice to be here for me. I just didn’t want them spending the money on flights, hotels, and food for what I thought would be a simple in-and-out thing — you know, like Gilligan’s Island, a three-hour surgery. In hindsight… yeah. Should’ve let them come.

So! Starting out great. On Thursday morning (Oct 31) I took a Waymo to UCLA Hospital for surgery at 10 a.m., terrified. Surgery went fine, and I left the hospital feeling relieved at long last around 5 p.m., craving eight hours of sleep.

Then, around 9 p.m. that night, I started bleeding badly from the bandaged area and had a full-blown panic attack. I was alone on a friend’s boat in Marina del Rey, no one around, and had to drive myself to the closest ER. I didn’t think waiting for an ambulance would be smart. I nearly passed out right there in the valet at the hospital. Shaking. Pale. Covered in blood.

They rushed me in, removed all the bandages to check things out, called my surgeon — unfortunately, he was not credentialed at that hospital — sent pictures, and, to my surprise, decided nothing was wrong. It was just post-op bleeding. In retrospect, it’s pretty clear what they missed. Either way, they got me bandaged up again, calmed me down, and sent me packing. I drove myself back to the boat.

4 a.m., Friday. I wake up. Look down… and the incision is now wide open. I could literally see inside — like a hole big enough that things could fall out. Ugh. I’m not a squeamish man, but ya know… that was a bit much — again, we’re not talking about my foot. Cue anxiety attack number two. Again, calling an ambulance seemed like a waste of time.

I carefully got myself together and eased into the truck, then drove farther away to a different ER in Santa Monica, where my surgeon has credentials. I was terrified driving, thinking things were falling out of the incision, hyperventilating. I almost got pulled over. Parked in the middle of Wilshire, maybe four blocks from the hospital. Looking at maps on my phone when a cop rolled up — I waved a bloody hand out the window. She took one look and just followed me to the ER.

Things were not good when I got there — again, I was pale as a ghost, shaking, full panic mode. The staff jumped into action, calming me down, easing the pain, and assessing the issue. I had been texting and calling my surgeon’s cell but wasn’t getting a response. The resident doctor showed up, quickly saw the issue! And said my surgeon was on the way to sort it out. Once my surgeon arrived, they planned to give me just local anesthesia and close the incision right there in the ER, where I could see, hear, and feel what they were doing.

I begged them to knock me out again — given the, uh… neighborhood they’d be working in. Thankfully, they very much understood. I also asked if they could keep me overnight since I’ve got no one nearby if things go sideways again for the fourth time. They totally got it.

At that point I had done a ton of research and gone through a couple doctors, and hand-picked this one guy specifically because he’s the guy for this procedure in Los Angeles — I was so nervous about it. And then this happens. Everyone kept saying, “Don’t be nervous, it’s going to be fine,” and I mean, sure, it could’ve been worse… but not by much.

Surgery round two (Friday afternoon, Nov 1) seemed to go well. I’m cautiously confident and still in the hospital — fair to say any dignity was out the window at this point.  I was able to get my own room, bed extender for tall-guy thing; they bring three meals a day, it’s nice as far as hospitals go, even has a TV, so I got to watch the Dodgers win. Plus, I brought my laptop, iPad, and phone — all already packed from before with everything I needed for post-surgery procrastination.

Downside: do you know what C. diff is? UGH.

Needless to say, it has been a whirlwind seventy-two hours! Everything seems to be healing the way it should at this point. They’re dropping off my medicine shortly and bringing me some new clothes since the ones I came in with were all covered in blood. I’m excited to get back down to my buddy’s boat, back around the ocean — it’s funny how my proximity to salt water seems directly correlated to how fast I heal.

The reason I’m posting this — what some may call TMI — was sort of a perspective shift I came upon that I thought folks might find interesting.

I had never felt so alone as I did the other night — in a stranger’s home, cold, bleeding, scared, and alone. It reminded me of the grass-is-greener thing. I’ve got friends who look at my life and say, “Man, it must be amazing — you just sail wherever you want, no schedule, no boss, no rules.” And yeah, it is amazing. But in times like this — in an hour of true need — I would have given all that up in an instant just to have someone there to hold my hand. I look at their lives and think, “You’ve got a wife, husband, a kid, a dog, a house, people who’d drop everything to be there if you needed them.”

Freedom costs stability. Stability costs freedom. And in moments like this — drifting without an anchor — I feel that price more than ever.

The good news is I’m happy to be past the speed bump in my medical chart — and whatever comes next…

Days sober: 2,155