In March of 2016, after undergoing a radical surgical procedure to save my life, I was lucky to be alive and grateful for the doctor who saved my life. Of course, the medical procedure that brought me to the hospital was a fairly routine laparoscopic surgery which would have normally required about a week or less in the hospital and a longer period of convalescence in the home. It wasn't to be. Although the initial surgery appeared to be successful, a second undetectable perforation in a completely different section of my colon was slowly leaking intestinal fluids into my system--causing my organs to shut down one by one. It wasn't to be my time although death was chasing me. Thankfully, an alert nurse whose post was usually not in the surgical recovery unit was paying close attention to my vitals. The nurse, who typically worked in the ICU, was probably more responsible than anyone for my being here today. Yes, I was that close to death. Time was vitally critical. The resulting surgery required what I later found out is called an "abdominal washout" and it required my entire chest cavity to be opened and that led to a 90-day additional hospital stay, loss of 45 pounds and a much longer recovery period at home. It also gave me an impressive new appearance--and not impressive in a good way.
As a young man in my 20s, I suffered from what I came to find out later was called Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I had what appeared to be a mild case. I was still able to socialize but was extremely inhibited when it came to revealing my body to others. I was extremely skinny, had translucent pale skin and skin conditions ranging from acne to chronic hereditary eczema. While these issues wouldn't ordinarily cause a person to become debilitated, in my case they could determine missing a day or days of work or school. Since I'd not been diagnosed with this condition--hereafter referred to as BDD--I found ways to self medicate. These mainly consisted of massive quantities of alcohol and illicit drugs. I found particularly when I drank, it could serve to relieve me of much of the anxiety associated with BDD. Also, it enabled me to have intimate relationships...lots of intimate relationships. I would always suffer from various degrees of BDD when sober again. It was truly a viscous cycle. I was fortunate to find a therapist in 2004 who helped me tremendously with getting a grip on the source of my body anxiety and, although I would still suffer from alcoholism for the next several years, I finally had a breakthrough with BDD. I started to look at my body in a different way.
Back to 2016. I'd been alcohol free for four years and was doing okay with acceptance of myself but had a few setbacks from time to time. Therapy continued even after I moved from Texas to Virginia and I had truly wonderful help in that area. I'd been particularly blessed. That is, until I developed--as a result of a severe flareup of pre-existing diverticulitis--a perforated colon. It sent me to the emergency room and that is where I found out what my limited options were. Laparoscopic surgery sounded too good to be true. There would be approximately three or more small incisions, the offending portion of my colon would be removed, the surgeon would re-section the healthy parts and voila! Good as new! Only...that's not how it went down. The resulting invasive surgery left what were for me hideous scars. I couldn't bring myself to look at them...even months after returning home from the long hospital stay. I would clean the wound area without looking at it.
The gay male subculture, of which I am a part, can be a warm and embracing tribe. It can also be a harsh, competitive and cruel one as well. This is particularly true if a guy of a certain age finds himself single. That's where I was in 2015 when I met my husband. I'd been single for several months after a mutually ended long-distance relationship (we are talking bi-national, Mexico) that had gone on for nearly four years. In February of that year, I was lucky enough to find the one man in the here and now who not only captured my heart--but also gladly allowed me to imprison his as well. It really was love at first sight for me. I was also gratified to have my sober self hear the sweet words, "I find you very attractive." I'd long passed the stage where physical was all there is but it was still a substantial part of the overall package. To hear those sincere words sealed the deal for me. We were married later that same year. You hear the term "storybook" thrown around a lot but it's no exaggeration where we were concerned. It was a storybook romance, a storybook wedding and a storybook domestic life. We took great pleasure in both caring for my aging mother, who was by that time living with me. It was a perfect scene until that day when I had the first attack. Then, after the surgery it was fear that this severely altered appearance would cause the BDD to rear it's ugly head and I would be right back where I started from.
I've decided against surgery.
That's where the story ends. I found that these horrific (yes, I'm still calling them that) scars could be altered--along with the resultant abdominal hernias--with corrective surgery. I have been tossing the idea around in my head for months. The death of my mother, our dog and two moves to two new cities have delayed the final decision but I found myself making that decision in a doctor's office here in Atlanta. She explained in great detail the risks involved in this type of surgery. She wasn't trying to scare me--just being honest and I appreciated it. Back home with my husband Eduardo, I told him of my decision. He'd been completely supportive of whatever I would decide. His response? "I love you just the way you are."
I've decided against surgery.
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