I’m doing better. I’m exercising most days, feeling stronger, eating right and still losing weight – although not as fast as before. Mostly, I’m feeling good. I’m down more than 80 pounds.

Sounds great, I know, and I’d be a happy guy if it weren’t for the abdominal pain and a surgical wound that’s still open and draining. (Gross. Sorry.) Storm clouds are brewing; I might need another operation. Ugh.

It turns out I probably have a significant surgical complication that my original surgeon, and a bunch of radiologists, completely missed. It’s a surgical error, a small tear in my abdomen called a fistula that has kept me from fully healing for months. It’s obvious on the scans, even to a non-doctor like myself. Fluid is leaking where it’s not supposed to.

The fistula is the latest in a string of complications going back to my original surgery on May 10. I’m ready to get past all this crap and move on with my new, thinner life. But I’m in limbo. I can’t look for a job, because I’m not really able to work. I’m still taking pain pills, which I hate.

It’s not clear yet how serious the fistula really is. It may actually have healed a bit on its own, or it may still be leaking. I’ll need further testing for that.

Honestly, I’m not angry about the error itself. Mistakes and complications happen, and there’s really no one to blame. That’s the risk in surgery. It’s frustrating that the error was missed, for months, not only by the surgeon, but by multiple radiologists reviewing dozens CAT scans, MRIs and other tests. They’ve cost me more time.

Frankly, the doctors were as disturbed as me by complication after complication. But instead of harnessing all of their strength and powers to cure me, they stepped away. They moved on to other, less complicated patients, whose problems they could fix quickly, and with less effort. They were tired of dealing with me

I’ve moved on too. I’ve got a new surgeon at a new hospital, and I’ve asked my amazing primary care physician to take a more active role in coordinating my care. I’m hopeful that the worst is behind me.

Honestly, it’s hard to complain. I’m not dead, and I very well could have been. I fought my way back from complication after complication. I’ve lost a lot of weight. Now I just want to get on with my life.

I’ve been away for a while. Sorry I haven’t kept in touch. It’s been a tough summer. I almost died. Twice.

After my gastric bypass surgery, I spent a total of eight weeks in the hospital. I was discharged and re-admitted seven times. I had two other major surgeries – one to take out my gall bladder, and another a day later to staunch severe bleeding. I didn’t even wake up between those two surgeries.

I’ve had more procedures than I care to count – endoscopies, MRIs, barium swallows, CAT scans, and no, they don’t use a real cat, despite what my four-year-old son Ari says. I was in the ICU for more than a week, unconscious, with a breathing tube down my throat, after a hospital-acquired infection took root in my surgical wound, travelled – oddly the docs say – to the salivary glands in my throat and almost closed off my airway. Ignored by the residents and interns caring for me that day, I would have suffocated to death but for a quick-thinking senior physician.

I lost 60 pounds in the hospital, far too quickly. For months, I’ve been poked, prodded and stuck with needles. I’ve had gallons of fluid by IV to keep me hydrated, and I’ve taken more pills (crushed) in the past few months than most people take in a lifetime. I’ve seen dozens of doctors, some fine, but many quite lousy, despite the stellar reputation of Boston’s Beth Israel Hospital.

Like I said, it’s been a rough summer.

I chose to have gastric bypass for all the right reasons. I was fat and getting fatter. Without a radical detour, I would have been dead soon. But it’s frustrating that a positive choice turned so bad.

What’s most upsetting is all the time I’ve lost. I didn’t get to pick up my kids on the last day of school. I didn’t get to take my daughter to sleep-away camp for the first time. My wife Erica, god bless her, had to do it without me. Family and friends visited me in the hospital, and I had no inkling of their presence. The clergy from my Temple – Joel, Jodi and Rachel – visited and prayed with my family, but I was oblivious. My kids cried, and I wasn’t there to console them. And Erica, my amazing Erica, went through the worst crisis of her life at my bedside, and I couldn’t hold her hand.

The good news is that I’m past the crisis. I’m down close to 80 pounds. That’s two-thirds of the way toward my goal of 200. I’m getting my strength back every day, and just last week started exercising again. Slowly, of course, but I’m exercising. I’ve got a huge pile of fat clothes to donate, and I bought some new clothes at Macy’s, instead of the big man store.

I’ve also been amazed at the outpouring of friendship and support from my community. I’ve got great friends, who were there for my family and I every step of the way. Michelle & Joe, Greg & Arlene, Bruce & Melissa, Karen & Mark, Renee & Paul and so many others – you were amazing and I love you all. My sister Andi held my hand in the ICU, where we watched Star Trek late one night. And despite our deep differences, my in-laws were there when it mattered.

I’ve still got some healing to do, but I’m well on my way to a full recovery. I haven’t needed to get rehydrated in the ER for almost three weeks. I’m feeling strong and looking for a personal trainer. I’ve got new sneakers and I’m actually starting to run in them, albeit slowly. That’s what they’re for, right? I’m celebrating my new, slimmer life, and looking forward to dropping my last 45 pounds or so over the next year.

Despite everything, life is good.