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The following is
an excerpt from the humorous and spiritually uplifting book, Nothing
Bad Happens, Ever. The book was written by Joan Fountain and published
by Gold Leaf Press—the original publisher of Embraced By The
Light.
BYPASS
The
diagnosis was Morbid Obesity—a term that groups together all the
symptoms of obesity and says you'll probably die from one or more of them
soon. In my case, my doctor, Doc Lowell, said I had six months to live.
 "Unless," Doc Lowell
said, "you agree to a surgical procedure called an intestinal bypass
that will cause you to lose weight and may possibly save your life."
"May possibly?" I
asked.
"Nothing is certain. But
if you agree to the surgery, we'll need time to prepare."
"For what?"
"Miss Fountain," the
doc checked his clipboard, "your weight is four hundred and twenty
pounds. We'll need to build a special surgical platform for you. This
hospital is not equipped with surgical tables large enough for a person
such as yourself. It would be a first here."
So, if I agreed to this surgery,
I would be, not only the first African-American woman to certify in firearms
and takedowns at Solano Community College, but also the fattest person
they ever operated on at Oakland's Kaiser Hospital. At this rate I was
racking up more impressive accomplishments than Imelda Marcos.
"Do it," I said. But
I said it without enthusiasm because I wasn't sure I wanted him to save
my life.
"Then we'll order the platform.
But I feel obligated to warn you that the extent of your obesity complicates
this procedure, as it would any surgical procedure. You may not live through
it."
"That wouldn't matter to
me, Doc," I said. "I haven't been living for the past couple
of years, anyway. Really."
So, I signed the forms, returned
home, and waited two weeks while the hospital constructed a platform sturdy
enough to allow Doc Lowell to cut me open and tinker with my intestines
and not fall to pieces (the platform, not the doctor). I decided to inform
my mother about this (the tinkering, not the platform), so, late one night,
I dialed her number.
"Momma, it's Joan,"
I said when she answered.
"Hello, Joanie." Her
voice sounded distant, as if she were holding the phone at arm's length
from her mouth.
"Momma, can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear."
"I'm really sick, Momma.
I'm going to have an operation. I thought I'd let you know."
"What kind of operation?"
"An intestinal bypass.
They..."
"When."
"Next Thursday, but listen,
you don't need to come, Momma, if…"
"I'll be sure and pray
for you, Joanie. On Thursday."
"Okay, pray for me and…thank
you…"
I listened for a response. I
couldn't even hear her breathing.
"I'll call and let you
know how it turns out."
I didn't put the phone down
after we said good-bye—there was more I wanted to say. But I didn't
know what I wanted Momma to hear, so when the line went dead, I felt relieved.
At the same time, a hollow longing settled into my heart. I wanted to
cry, but I couldn't.
A while later, I fell asleep—the
phone still in my lap.
Bypass:
A procedure in which a diseased organ is temporarily or permanently circumvented
(see Webster's).
CARRIED
AWAY
Thursday
came, and at dawn, my roommate Lynette and I began our drive to Oakland.
I'd had two weeks to consider my feelings about the operation and was
surprised that morning to feel hope rising with the sun. I'd come to believe
that obesity had been the cause of my troubles all along and that if surgery
could make me thin forever, I might finally be happy.
At the hospital, Lynette helped
me through admittance, then an orderly wearing a white baseball cap brought
a wheelchair to take me to my room. He quickly realized that no way
was I going to squeeze my butt into that chair, and he spun around and
disappeared back down the hall. He returned a minute later pushing steel
gurney with sturdy looking wheels. The contraption wasn't wide enough
for me to lie on, but riding sidesaddle in the middle of it might work.
"This should do it, Miss,"
he said and cranked the handle that lowered the bed. He maneuvered the
gurney behind me, and I plopped down. The braces squeaked, but they held.
The orderly didn't attempt to crank the bed back up, but he said with
a cheery smile, "You see?"
Lynette hugged me. "You're
on your own from here," she said.
"Go ahead. Abandon me,"
I replied.
"No one deserves it more."
She smiled and then waved as the orderly wheeled me off—my sandals
dragging across the tiled floor.
For the next few hours, I sat
half-on, half-off a hospital bed that threatened any moment to collapse
while two nurses prepped me for the operation. They washed me, took blood
samples, and measured my vital signs. By Doc Lowell's orders, the nurses
refused to feed me—in fact they had to administer three enemas to
eliminate what I'd eaten the day before! It was humiliating. I got through
it only by reminding myself repeatedly how great I'd look a year from
then with a body like Goldie Hawn's on Laugh-In. In fact, I thought,
this entire scene belongs on Laugh-In, and I double-checked the
room for hidden cameras.
At noon, I gazed longingly at
the lunch belonging to the woman in the bed next to mine. It was a meager
snack really—a cheese sandwich, applesauce, and a cookie—but
I would have eagerly endured another enema for it.
A male nurse came in with orders
to insert two IVs—one on top of my wrist and one under my clavicle.
First, he tried to find a vein through all the flab on my wrist, but his
failure to do so was not due to a dull needle. Poke and miss, poke and
miss—and he cussed at every miss. Finally, he gave up and called
for the nurses to assist. With efforts from all three, they cut a slit
in my arm which reached two-inches in length before they hit a vein large
enough to make blood squirt across the bed and onto the wall. They stuck
the IV in that hole and taped it shut. They tried the same trick with
my clavicle but couldn't make my blood spurt far enough. They ended up
sticking the IV under my collarbone instead. I was a bloody wreck by the
time the anesthesiologist showed up.
"Hi, Joan," she said.
"My name's Doctor Yee, and I'm going to give you a sedative to knock
you out for the operation."
"Too late," I said.
"They've already operated."
She laughed and prepared her
rather long needle. "This won't take effect immediately," she
said, and I felt a sting in my thigh. "We don't want you falling
asleep until we've got you positioned in the hoist."
"Positioned in what hoist?"
I asked.
"The industrial hoist Doctor
Lowell ordered. We would never get you onto the surgical platform with
a hoist." She jerked out the needle and patted my thigh.
Hoist, I though. Did
she mean crane? Great. They'd hired a crane to come in and
lift me onto the table—probably operated by some guy named Mack with
hairy arms and a beer-stained tank top.
I hope this sedative is strong, I thought. I don't want to be sober for
this.
The orderly in the white baseball
cap showed up smiling at the door. "You ready, Doctor Yee? I've brought
the gurney."
"Yes, Mack," she answered,
and my eyebrows shot up. "Let's take her down."
A few minutes later, Mack wheeled
me into the operating room, and Doc Lowell and his assistants slapped
electrodes onto my bleeding body. Then they helped me to maneuver myself
onto a wide platform suspended by metal cables. A hoist would lift this
platform with me lying on it, carry it to the center of the room, and
bring it to rest atop a receiving platform which sat solidly on eight
sturdy legs.
However, as it turned out, the
hoist would carry me farther than that. Much farther. Just as I got seated
on the platform, Dr. Yee's sedative suddenly took effect, and I went limp.
I fell backwards, landing solidly on my back in the middle of the platform.
My vision faded to black.
Fortunately, I had fallen into
perfect position for the operation. Unfortunately, by the time the hoist
carried me across to the receiving platform, I had died, and the room
erupted with alarms.
continued...
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