I haven’t looked at my abdomen since March of 2016.
It’s not that I don’t take care of it. I mean, I shower
daily and wash without looking. It sounds strange and I’m sure it is strange
but I just can’t bring myself to look at the disfiguring scars and resultant
hernias I’ve developed from three major surgeries. I am working on it. Wait…that’s
bullshit. I’m not working on it at all. I’m planning to
never look at my abdomen again. At least for now.
I’ve written about my surgeries and near-death experience
(even though I never saw
any white
light or, for that matter, any proof of a life hereafter) on these pages before
so I won’t bore you with any of the details.
If you really want to read those, you can certainly use the opportunity
to seriously check out my blog…it can
be interesting at times. In 2016 I had major surgery after what was supposed to
be a routine laparoscopic procedure to correct a case of diverticulitis. Major
infection occurred and a subsequent series of surgeries followed by a 70-something
day stretch of time in the hospital. That’s the short version. I nearly died.
So…I’m extremely grateful to be typing these words out on my computer in the
month of April. Year: 2019.
Back to the abdomen. I have to say that by the time I
reached 51 years of age it wasn’t what I would have called a pretty abdomen. It
was just “standard,” for lack of a better word. The skin was smooth—very little
hair. A furry patch of graying hair covered my upper chest and then a smooth ribbon
of hairless skin—very white—followed by a seemingly normal “insie”
belly-button. Below that, a single line of hair worked its way down to…let’s
just say a very neatly groomed and trimmed area that had seen plenty of action
well into my descent from the peak of a gay man’s life: somewhere around 25 years
of age…usually. There was a period of time in my late 30s to early 40s where I
actually took an interest in working out. At the time, I’d experienced some success
with improving my overall physique without much professional training. I’d reluctantly
(I really want to emphasize that word so I’ll say it again:
reluctantly) go to the gym three to four
days a week and when I wasn’t at the gym, I’d work out with a modest set of
weights at home. I had developed—for the first time in my life, mind you—arm muscles
and actual defined pectoral muscles! It was truly a shock but it got me some much-needed
attention. At least I thought I needed it. One thing that didn’t happen however
was any development of the gay man’s dream. A six pack was never in my future.
But let’s just say I was happy. After all, I could still look down and actually
see my penis every time I peed. It pleased me at the time to be able to look
down at fairly well-developed pecs each time this happened. My mid-40s saw that
zeal to work out fade away. But I was generally happier with my appearance than
I’d been all through my awkward 20s and early 30s. I’d worked hard to overcome
a never diagnosed illness that I’m now certain was body dysmorphic disorder. In
March of 2016, I still had a full head of hair, a little paunch but definitely not
the big gut so many of my fellow travelers were burdened with and a still
strong and now alcohol-free libido. I wasn’t complaining. That is…until the
worsening pain in my gut became unbearable.
By that time, I was married and
was the primary caregiver to my still very vital and relatively healthy 92 year
old mother. For me, I guess the important thing was that I’d finally felt at peace
with my body. I think that’s the most troubling aspect of this “setback.” I find
myself struggling to use an alternative word—something less weighty than setback but I think it’s appropriate
here. This truly is a type of setback for me and I’m not over it. While the
substantial portion of my colon that was removed to rid me of the diverticulitis
pain worked, my resultant hernia pain has contributed a daily reminder that the
weak pain management medication (thank you, opioid crisis) does little to
alleviate. I’d just like to feel as close to normal as I can again but the fact that I cover myself before
looking in the mirror reflects a clear message to me over and over again. This isn’t normal.
****
On a cold January day in 2015, I
recognized the fact that I was single and relatively happy in my new environment.
Although selfies had by that time become a regular part of my social media experience,
I rarely took photos of my shirtless body. I could gladly leave that indulgence
to the proud gym bunnies out there. Regardless, on this particular day, I was
freshly showered and somewhat surprisingly—and perhaps a bit modestly—admiring my
body, perceived flaws and all. I have no idea why I suddenly found myself on my
bed snapping a few selfies. I certainly didn’t plan on sharing them with
anyone. As it turned out, these would indeed be the last pictures of my abdomen,
pre-disfiguration. Maybe I had a clue. It would be a year before surgery and I had
no idea what was on the horizon. I’m just glad I froze that moment—digitally speaking.
