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.

So, the first week was tough. The second week was tougher – I was readmitted to the hospital due to dehydration. And the third week, well lets just say I was readmitted again this afternoon for dehydration, vomiting and nausea.

It’s been a frustrating time as I’ve tried to adapt to my new plumbing. I’m down almost 40 pounds, but that’s probably too much, too fast. I just can’t keep anything down. I’m having some tests tomorrow and hopefully the docs will figure this out. Tonight I’m stuck in a hospital bed with a broken Kindle (yeah, I dropped my precious Amazon.com bookreader onto the hard hospital linoleum, shattering it’s screen).

But the dehydration, vomiting, nausea and just feeling like @#$% haven’t even been the worst of my weight loss surgery experience. I’ve had some great nurses to help me through (shout-outs to Lauda, Susan, Cassie, Lisa and a few others I only remember through the post-op drug-induced haze). No, the worst part was during my second readmission, when a (nameless) doc at the hospital decided I was simply choosing not to drink. It was post-surgical anxiety, he said and ordered a psych consult. A psych consult, to help with nausea and vomiting.

Insulting, to say the least.

So, before asking the psych guys (yes, plural) to go away, I suggested they were lucky I hadn’t yet yaked all over them. They left rather abruptly.

I can’t help feeling angry at the (nameless) doc who ordered the consult in the first place. How does vomiting and dehydration stem from post-surgical anxiety? It doesn’t. Frankly, I don’t understand why he didn’t listen to me. I don’t understand why he didn’t take my symptoms more seriously. If we could have dealt with my symptoms last week, I might have avoided a third admission.

The last few weeks have been hard on me, but even harder on Erica and Annie (I’m not ignoring Ari; he’s just too little to understand). Erica is a doc and knows what can go wrong, so she’s always thinking about the worst case scenario. And Annie is just a kid, nine-years-old at that, who’s watched her dad struggle through three inpatient hospital stays in three weeks. Not to mention the week I spent inpatient back in March and the two nights last December, both due to my herniated neck disks. I think she just wants her dad home. I think both my girls just want our normal life back.

They’re right. It’s enough already. I’m starting to wonder if this was a big, giant mistake – an un-doable one at that. To top it all off, at this very moment, they are running all kinds of fluids into my slowly rehydrating body. One of  ‘em is potassium. You’ve heard of it – the Chiquita Banana stuff. It’s good for you, I know. But it burns like hell running through an IV. UGH!

I hate roller coasters. Big time. They scare the bejeezus out of me. When I was 17 I went to Disney World with my friends and practically threw up on Space Mountain. I vowed never to ride again. And I didn’t. Until May 10, 2010, the day of my gastric bypass. This time I really did throw up.

I don’t remember much about the day of the surgery. I don’t think I slept much the night before, showered early and got to the hospital at 6 a.m. Erica and I waited for a short time to be admitted. Then they are sticking a needle in my arm and I’m trying to back out. Erica said she’d kill me if I backed out, after putting her through months of emotional build up. I remember thinking how that seemed more appealing than surgery. Then my wise man T. Don showed up and somehow convinced me to sign the consent. Next thing I know, I’m lying in a regular hospital room clicking the little thingy for pain meds and checking out the hot nurses (I haven’t mentioned that part to Erica yet.)

I felt pretty good. I mostly slept and clicked the narcotic button the first day or two. The pain was negligible. They started me on Crystal Light and protein shakes a short time later and I went home just two days after the surgery. Big mistake that turned out to be. I spent two days sitting on the couch rejecting all the liquids I needed to stay hydrated. I simply couldn’t swallow anything. Period.

By the weekend I was in the hospital being rehydrated. They tanked me up with four liters and sent me back home, where I promptly stopped drinking again. I was bloated and full; I couldn’t swallow anything. By the next night I was back at the hospital, re-admitted. I wasn’t dealing with much pain, but there was no way I could keep myself hydrated. It took a few days of rest, but I guess some swelling in my belly finally started going down about a week after the surgery and I could swallow.

They let me go home on a full liquid diet about two days ago. I’m drinking and taking short walks, and I’m finally feeling a little of my strength return. But I think I’ve still got a ways to go. The good part is I’m already down 32 pounds.