There is a story behind why I eat this way. It was October 2021.
"Jenn, you seem to be more alert today. You're doing well"" noted the doctor. "Do you have any questions for me today?" asked doctor. "I do. What happened to me?" I replied.
I listened intently as the doctor explained, "Yes, of course, let me tell you about what happened. You have a part of your small intestines that does not rotate correctly. It's a malrotation that creates a severe life-threatening twist in the intestine. It's called midgut volvulus.”
Although my wits had returned, and I could listen to music and read, I could not understand the words midgut volvulus. I asked the doctor to spell out the medical term for me. I wanted to research the condition after he left to finish his rounds. He kindly scratched the diagnosis onto a piece of paper and left it in my hand. Fortunately, my purse and phone made it with me to the hospital. I was able to contact the kids and research what had happened to my body.
I was lying in a hospital bed on the 8th floor in the Darmzentrum (Intestinal Center) Marienhospital (Yes, it's one word), Stuttgart, Germany. Lifting my hospital gown, I could see the fresh wound on my abdomen. The staples gave the appearance of a railroad track that carried shots of pain the length of my core. It was not a straight line but a scenic railroad that curved through the terrain of my skin, making a gentle curve to avoid falling into my belly button. Tubes extended from a bag on my bedside through my face, down my esophagus, and into my stomach. An IV with painkillers and meds dripped into the back of my right hand. Another tube stitched to my skin served as a drain tube for fluids in my internal cavity.
Lowering my gown, I began to learn about my situation and surroundings. I decided to start from the beginning and revisit how I got to this bed in the first place. My sudden hospitalization started from my desk at work. A sharp abdominal pain rapidly took all my time and energy. Office mates dialed 112 (911 for Europe). Within an hour, I was full of morphine and utterly reliant on the skills of a medical team to save my life. The world had collapsed around me, and my ability to think and take care of myself completely vanished. The only route to safety was the operating room.
I recall thinking a hot, jagged steel rod had to be jammed through my abdomen. The pain seared through the morphine. The technician demanded that I lie still for the entire CT scan. The technician dove behind a protective wall as the machine roared to life and slowly swallowed me whole, tasting vigorously for the hidden morsel causing my pain. The ultrasound in the ambulance ruled out appendicitis, leaving the emergency medical team and doctor puzzled. I could hear the doctor ordering the CT Scan from his handy (Mobile phone in German).
I was rolled to a small room where a team of nurses began preparing me for surgery. The doctors held a conference call in another room to review my scan. They found the problem. Later, I learned that the distinctive "coffee bean” shape on the scan was my small intestine knotted, blocked, and swelling fast. My small intestines became deprived of vital blood and oxygen, and the swelling and pressure-filled my body cavity, cutting off room for my organs.
The world and words blurred, and my head dizzied when the doctor, who I later learned performed the Ladd Procedure, told me I needed immediate surgery. She held my hand and arm to let me know that they would operate and that my life depended on it. At that moment, I felt my entire life flash across the back of my eyelids. I realized quickly that without action, I was on an immediate path to the end of my life. I had zero control, little agency, and even less constitution. The familiar triangle-shaped gas mask lowered over my face.
I learned afterward that the surgery lasted well into the night. Later, the doctor who performed the surgery told me the team worked on me for about five hours. By the light of a nearby window, I knew that it was about mid-day. The anesthesia slowly wore off, finally freeing my brain to comprehend my situation. I was still among the living; however, I had yet to learn about my body and what went wrong. I could not move. Tubes surround me, either giving my liquids or taking away fluids. The room was a typical recovery room with ever-present staff and monitors. Beeps, hissing, and soft shoes walking the floor were the only sounds I could hear. I could not see, and I had no idea the whereabouts of my eyeglasses.
By evening or 24 hours after my arrival, I was wheeled to my home for the next two weeks. Initially, I would not eat for three days. My digestive tract required time to heal and reduce swelling. The trauma to the small intestines meant a drastic dietary adjustment for months and years to come.
On day two, the nurses had strict orders to get me on my feet. My first task was to stand. It was hard to believe that a few days earlier, I rode my bike nearly 46 km a day several times per week to and from work. As I sat up, I immediately became schwindlig (dizzy). Using the wall and IV stand, I lifted myself and quickly became overwhelmed by dizziness. I promptly returned to my bed, feeling a little sweaty but encouraged. I passed the first test toward recovery. By the end of the next day, I would have not only stood but walked to the door of my room with the aid of my IV pole and its three bags and tubes connected to my body.
The staff fed me soup and a Jell-O mixture on the third day. On day four, the food service served a mushy mix of potatoes. I woke on the morning of the fifth day feeling uncomfortable. The staff delivered another no-fiber soft breakfast. However, my stomach and abdomen felt under pressure, and I could not bring the food to my lips. I tried to eat a few portions but quickly had to stop.
The staff returned about 30 minutes later to collect my untouched plate. The food service staff noted my untouched food, and the accompanying nurse asked if I felt okay. I told her that I had felt pressure in my stomach, and despite very little food for three days, I had no appetite. She asked me if I needed more nausea medicine, and I said, "No, it's not nausea." She asked if I needed more painkillers. I replied, "No, it's not a sharp pain. it's more like pressure." She checked my IV and vitals before leaving the room. The pressure continued to increase.
The doctor's rounds were not for another hour. A second nurse stopped by my bedside. She seemed frustrated with my inability to eat. I told her the pressure was getting worse. Taking my news, she left my room. Within a few moments, that pressure spiked, and I felt like I would burst. My head instantly filled with beads of sweat. I was not experiencing nausea, but I could tell that I was about to lose everything inside my system.
The wound was screaming at me and tugging hard at the staples muzzling its lips, which should never again open. I needed to get up to find a bucket or sink fast. After mastering standing and moving with three bags and an IV pole the day prior, I got myself to my feet and started the 100-mile journey to the sink. My trip halted after three steps. My body convulsed, forcing me to the floor. Landing on all fours, the pressure inside my system released just as the nurse returned. I was unable to comprehend much around me as I fought the pain of the wound and the pressure on my organs. After what seemed like years, I realized that a nurse was asking me questions I could not hear and that a dozen legs and feet moved in the scene before me.
After several attempts to get her words to my brain, she shook my shoulder hard enough to drag me back into the moment. Suddenly, words accompanied her moving mouth. She was asking me if I was okay. I found a yes that meant I was in the moment and not lost to the world and by no means conveyed that I was actually okay. Her eyes were blue, revealing urgency reflecting my dependency on her actions. Seconds later, a small crew entered the room and moved me back onto the hospital bed.
The bed suddenly became a transformer and shifted from a luxurious bed fit for a queen to an operating table. A nurse was ordering me to swallow while she was guiding a tube back into my nose. Instantly, the clear plastic tube filled with a high-volume flow of green liquid. The tube led to a two-liter bag. The level in the bag was rising fast, and the nurse ordered another nurse to get another bag quickly. Halfway through the second bag, the pressure in the room eased as the fluid in the clear tube slowed to a trickle.
After a slight pause, the doctor issued new orders that I understood too well, back to the CT scanner. The second CT scan was much easier than the first. I was in less pain and with more painkillers. I lay slightly relaxed as the big machine tasted my body for the same morsel it found earlier in the week. I was hoping that the machine would go hungry. Unfortunately, the scan revealed that my intestines were again mal-rotated. The chief surgeon, previous doctor, and another doctor approached my bed in the acute care room and informed me that they needed to repeat the surgery immediately. It was a matter of saving my organs and life.
It was only moments before I was in the surgery preparation room. I specifically recall the pleasure of having my body wrapped with a hot cloth blanket while several people moved with purpose and intention. I heard my vitals called out loud just as the familiar triangle mask lowered toward my face with the command to take a deep breath. My last thought felt like I had just drawn the go straight to jail card with no way out while playing Monopoly.
I woke again in the recovery room. I cried, and that was a good thing in hindsight.