Room404

About me: Female, 33, BMI between 27 and 30 my whole life, yo-yo dieting, slowly creeped to BMI of 35. My doctor and I talked about the sleeve, and as I have excellent insurance we got the ball rolling. Immediate denial. All I had to do was gain 50 pounds or so and pick up some sleep apnea or prediabetes and then they would. I'd been researching the sleeve for close to a year. I was disappointed and didn't want to pay out of pocket, so I said, "Never mind then! I can do this myself!" and began dieting and exercising hard for about 6 months, losing a total of.... 11 pounds. Defeated, I started researching self-pay and Mexico again. Earlier in 2013 I'd liked the traffic and reviews Dr. Quinones was getting, but then by the time I was looking again this fall he seemed to have died off in forum popularity. I started focusing on Dr. Louisiana Valenzuela and liked the number of surgeries she had done. I'd really done my research and so when I finally brought it up to my husband the discussion was informed and I was able to diffuse his fears as I had done my own. We originally were planning on going together, but I have more PTO than he does. "I'll go alone!" I said. "I speak Spanish, they drive you everywhere, and then you don't have to be bored. Let's save your PTO for somewhere beautiful when I'm more photogenic." He protested but agreed. I was in an excellent place mentally and was like, "I've got this. I'm going to bounce back." I went through MBC and booked my date a month later. Only once did I get such cold feet from reading forum posts about bad nurses that I went to cancel everything, but changed my mind because Delta would charge me $150 to put my miles back. It gave me pause, and then I talked myself back into it. Flight to San Diego: No problem. Pickup by Victor, who chatted away all the way to the hotel and coached me on how things would go on the way back into the States. Checked into the Marriott. GORGEOUS. Giant comfortable beds with fluffy pillows. scale in the beautiful bathroom. I knew I had until 11 p.m. to drink my last (hospital coordinator called and reminded me of it). I've donated plasma plenty of times in the past, and I know the powers of hydration. I chugged and chugged and chugged so that I would have the best veins possible for the hospital the next day. The hotel gift shop has many delicious and cheap drinks, and the minibar has a few Gatorade in there too (as well as Nestle Crunch and booze). A few hours of nice sleep (with the help of Xanax) and then I bolted awake. My shower didn't work, and I ended up standing underneath the equivalent of a stream of pee Water pressure to try and freshen up before heading over to the hospital. Oh well. In the van I met 2 others having surgery that day. We were excited and nervous. At the hospital, we were very early and waited around in a lobby for what felt like an eternity but perhaps was an hour before we were taken to get our blood drawn. The woman who draws blood is very gentle and very accurate, and one of the female hospital coordinators translated to her that she's a bit famous on the Internet forums for being so good. She smiled and laughed and was pleased. DISCLAIMER TIME: I'm a chicken. I have a very low pain threshold. I'm afraid of needles. As my story progresses, keep in mind that we all handle it differently and that my pain, while real, could register on your threshold differently. We got assigned to our rooms. We went up to a certain floor to get weighed and measured, and there were dead-eyed women walking with IV poles across the floor. "Obese zombies!" I thought. "I'm excited and ready to do this. My head is in the game." When we went to Floor 4 and I went into my room, next was the EKG. In all my research I never read anybody giving details about the EKG. Two women came in and pulled my gown down to put the leads on my chest. I was okay with this until one repeatedly lifted up my flabby boob to get the suctions on the underside of it. Then I stared at the ceiling and started giggling. Check your dignity at the door, because later on the drain-emptying nurses got to see cash and prizes. They see it all day, but I blushed anyways. The IV woman came in and hit my vein in 1 try, and it stayed in and strong for the duration of my hospital stay. This is where I feel again that hydration was important and might have helped me out, as Van Friend #1 had 3 IV sticks and Van Friend #2 was on her 4th IV by the day of discharge. My needle fears over, I was elated. The worst was over in my mind. Now I just go to sleep and wake up to a lovely drug cocktail and stroll around a few days. They came and got me about an hour later. On the surgical suite floor, I could see them working on somebody already. I suppose that's normal, but I don't want to see it. Pull a curtain around the working team or put a shade on the door. So I wandered into the appropriate empty surgical suite, and hopped up on the table to stare at the big lights and shiver. The anesthesiologist put my arm out to the side and said, "I'm going to give you something to make you sleepy." OUT. With my gallbladder, I got some slow drip on the way to surgery in my gurney and cried the whole way until the anesthesiologist got tired of me maybe and pushed the plunger. GALLBLADDER SIDE STORY: I had my gallbladder out almost 2 years ago, and that has been my only surgical experience to compare this to. My next memory is of coming awake and feeling a bonfire in my left upper quadrant. I wrenched off my oxygen mask, clutched my guts, and took in a loud, sharp gasp of breath before exhaling it hard and shrieky like I was in Lamaze. I did this over and over every 3 seconds, unable to even cry I was so focused on the pain. Next to me, Van Friend #1 was panting in pain as well. (I asked her about this later and she did not remember anything until her room postop.) The doctors were around me asking questions. "Are you nauseous? What kind of pain is it? What can we do to help you? Will you open your eyes? Will you bend your legs and move to this other bed?" But I never broke from my sharp inhale and painful gasp exhale. It could have been 1 minute, it could have been 10. They grabbed the sheet around me and moved me to my other bed, and I groaned with unhappiness. I felt pain medication going through my veins but it wasn't working. Finally, a voice said, "I'm going to give you something to make you sleepy," and I nodded. I got jabbed in my upper arm like I was in a psych ward, and then it was lights out. I woke up again in my room and immediately went back into gut-clenching misery. The nurses came and asked me my pain scale, and I said 6 or 7. I got medicine, and an hour later was still staring at the ceiling clutching my guts and gasping. (I didn't ring the nurse call one time during my entire stay. I don't know why not.) They told me it was too early for more medication. Eventually, Dr. Altamirano on Dr. Valenzuela's team (a ridiculously good-looking man, seriously) came in and I told him whatever we were doing wasn't working. So I got Toradol (anti-inflammatory which does not get you "high" with relief) and IV tramadol. I might have gotten a shot of Psych Ward tranquilizer again or maybe some morphine, because things were warm on the way in. Moderate relief, no more gasping. It was determined that I did not have gas pain but that I had drain pain and that my tubing was squashed up on my diaphragm, so every breath in was painful. I did get gas pains once or twice during my stay and recognized the difference. You can walk out a gas bubble. You can't walk out a knife in your diaphragm. Others saw me walking and I could see in their faces how I looked. The anesthesiologist grabbed my face as he walked by and said, "Smile!" and I just stared at him. Who was the obese zombie now? GALLBLADDER SIDE STORY: When I awoke from surgery, I was in the PACU with perhaps a dozen other people in a very large room. I was sleepy and perfectly quiet, and intently watched the nurse watching me. I also gave them no help moving me bed to bed, and was moved in my sheet to the bed. I groaned unhappily. What was supposed to be a 45-minute laparoscopic surgery ended up taking 3 hours due to some tricky and odd anatomy, and I was puffed up a long time. I felt zero gas pains when I came to, only numbness and pressure. I was not encouraged to walk unless it was to the bathroom, and then I needed a nurse. Back in Tijuana, Day 2 was better. I had a wretched throb in my left upper quadrant, but the rest felt okay. It's very hard to sleep in the hospital, because the traffic is loud all day and there was construction going on inside. The walls are thin, and you can hear the crying and vomiting of those on your floor. Bring earplugs or noise-cancelling headphones. I grabbed my IV pole and did laps frequently, stopping at the nurses' desk to say hi and to get ice. I had packed several hair clips to clip up the back of my gown so as not to flash anybody. It had been almost 10 hours since I'd gotten pain medication, so I pooped out and went to bed. I told a nurse I had pain and she said "You have gas. You should walk." I was laying in bed when a doctor came and did rounds. I told him I had drain pain. He felt my stomach and listened to it, and then pressed on my drain. Tears started pouring out of my eyes. Those of you who had drains for a week or more, you are mental and physical warriors. He left, and in came my surgeon and her very hot sidekick. She's like, "Are you crying?" and I just burst into tears. I pulled the sheets over my head and wailed. "It's *sob* so much *eh-HEH-HEH* better than yesterday *sniff*." She squeezed my hand and talked to me, and hot doctor got another bag of tramadol up on the IV pole, but it wasn't enough. I think this was the night I felt well enough to shower, and a nice young nurse helped redo my bandages. GALLBLADDER SIDE STORY: My doctors were slow on getting pain medications to me the first evening after surgery, and after a few narcotics by mouth I said, "Am I in a Saw movie? Are you trying to see how much I can take?" After that, it was Dilaudid and Toradol. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom, overflowing the pee measurer in the toilet. It was oral and IV pain medications every 2-4 hours. Back in Tijuana, Day 3 was "get the drain out." I'd read that people gave one big inhale and one big exhale, and it came right out. I had to inhale and exhale 4 times and let out a bizarre howl as my innards shuddered in revolt. After about 10 minutes, I hopped up and took a stroll in the hall to a chorus of "You look SO much better. No offense, but you looked like *&$% and we were scared for you." Back at the hotel, I wondered when people would be calling to check on me. My U.S. coordinator through MBC said that she would be checking on me "constantly." I remembered stories of drivers showing up to take people shopping or for ice cream. Nothing. The day ticked by with bad TV and broth (it tastes way better after days of starving) and Gatorade. They showed up with a few medications that the pharmacy had. I remembered some people being charged for this, but I wasn't. Probably because they didn't have them all. I had been texting with my husband nonstop pretty much. The Wi-Fi in the Marriott is very patchy, and on top of that the Viber app they encourage you to use would drop out for 45 minutes at a time. Get Skype or pay for a brief time of international on your phone plan. I walked laps around the hotel floor with Van Friend #2, and met another person who had surgery the same day. She had a split forehead and 2 black eyes. She woke from surgery and immediately blacked out, smashing her face on the way down. They took her back to surgery and she had a blood clot. She ended up with a transfusion and a bill that was $500 higher. ***SIDE CHAT OF INSPIRATION*** I had read of people who had a hard time, or a bad time, or a leak, and they were always like, "Totally worth it!" but it never really hit home until this woman told me the same thing. "I'm so glad I had it done." You don't think anything is going to happen to you, but it can and does and you can power through it. A few hours before trying to go to sleep (there is a karaoke bar on the main level of the Marriott and clubs around it, and it sounds like a ghetto blaster block party from like 7 p.m. to 2 a.m. Bring. Your. Earplugs!) my U.S. coordinator called and asked how I was. Uh, fine thank you, bye. The smoke detector in my room needed new batteries and beeped every hour or 2, but when I called the front desk they never managed to get somebody up to change them. This room at least had a working shower with tons of water pressure and it was mahhhhvelous. An uneventful border crossing and long flight home the next day, I was met by my sweet husband. Here's a tip right now: DON'T GO ALONE. I was so sure it was going to be no problem. I didn't want to bore him. The first time I needed him was after surgery to hold my hand while I gasped through a painful night. The second time I needed him was to help with dignity. You need somebody to help you pull your panties on, to help you shower, to hold your drain while you try to lower down to pee. The third time I missed him was when I heard the story of the woman with the blood clot, and I was very afraid that I'd die alone in my hotel room. A few days later I wrote an email to my U.S. coordinator, my surgeon Dr. Valenzuela, and the hot doctor Carlos Altamirano. I gave them a rundown of a few things that I thought could go into play when they were brainstorming. I did write that I had a positive experience, and for the complaining and fright that you read in this story it is a positive thing. ***RAMBLING**** I emailed about the pros and cons of the hotel. I praised the nurses I had and named several. (They still don't have name tags, but the younger the better, it seems. Less jaded and they really want to help you be comfortable/pain-free/hydrated.) I complained about dozens of holes in my sheets and towels that would wrap around your head but not your body in the bathrooms. I have been swapping emails with several staff at the hospital to make things better for you, the future sleevers of Tijuana! ****TO THE PRESENT**** I've felt amazing right out of the gate. I get my Fluid and Protein in every single day without breaking a sweat. I went to followup and my doctor said my incisions looked great, except for one that was a little gnarly because it was healing "inside out." It had a blackish scab in the middle of the wound and then was a bit open, held by a suture on each side. I saw him on Friday, and Sunday night I rolled on my side and felt a burning. My incision had completely come open and was full of pus. The infection had been in there waiting, letting me be smug and think things were so great. My husband took one look and said, "We're going to the urgent care." I managed to get in fast instead with my doctor again and he cultured it, swabbing again and again while squeezing a handful of fat around the incision to express the pus. I'm now on heavy-duty antibiotics for weeks while we figure out what all it's going to grow out. *****RANDOM THINGS****** My postoperative diet paperwork instructions are not consistent. One set told me full liquids for 2 weeks, one set said Clear Liquids for 1 week and then full liquids for 1 week. Then the instructions begin with 3 weeks out of surgery. What was I supposed to have between the end of week 2 until the beginning of week 3? The other Valenzuela patient I became acquainted with was refusing her pain medication because it was so painful for her to receive it. She asked me in the hotel the morning we left, "I know your answer, but do you have any regrets?" And I sat there silent for like a minute and hemmed and hawed. I do not regret the gastric sleeve. I do not regret choosing my surgeon. What I do regret is the pain, the fear, the inconveniences, the side effects that don't quite count as side effects, and not saving up more money to be babied somewhere nicer. Of the group that I met personally, all having surgery the same day we have.... Van Friend #1 with 3 IV sticks but a fair recovery off into the sunset. Van Friend #2 with 4 IV sticks, nausea, a ring bruise from a too-tight tourniquet, and gagging on movement and the G2 they offered. I also feel badly because she was using these Gas-X chewables she really liked and I gave her Gas-X strips but didn't tell her you can take up to 4 at one time. She only took 1 I think and didn't have relief. I personally LOVED the Gas-X strips and felt relief with them, even though the anesthesiologist told me they wouldn't help me at all. They were also nice to have because of the mint to help get that dead animal taste out of your mouth. Valenzuela patient #2 with a painful IV but otherwise riding into the sunset. Blonde lady with blood clot/blood transfusion/head wound/black eyes. Canadian with superbug infection in 2 of her incisions and pneumonia. Myself with constant drain pain while there and now a gaping pus wound in my abdomen, taking antibiotics and praying to dodge the hospital. What are the odds? I'm trying not to think those mean thoughts, but what's happening here? I read the risks, benefits, side effects and signed my name. You just don't anticipate that things could actually go poorly for YOU. And yet, all that said, just like the others I would do it again. The weight loss has been effortless (I know that changes fast) and I would rather be on antibiotics with a frightening memory than be dead in X years from obesity. Wishing you all a happy and healthy journey. Cross-posting this to the "other" forum as well. Photos include: "After" is my open wound. Do not click on it if you are squeamish or eating. 34 is of the top half of my bed. Count the holes in the sheets! 35 is of the woman with the blood clot. The bad bruising is from heparin shots. I didn't get a picture of her face. 36 is the view from my hospital window. It's a decapitated Spider-Man. 37 is my drain. I had a picture of it attached to me, but I needed more clothes in the picture. 38 is my favorite.... Breakfast! Antibiotics, digestive aids, and pain medication. 39 is the scabby scratch where they dragged the needle across my arm before stabbing me in the meat Psych Ward style. The bruise doesn't show well in this picture.