My Body, My Frenemy - Boston Moms Blog

Up until the part where I almost died, it was a normal Friday. We had school and work. We ate pizza for dinner, as one does on a Friday. Then at 1:30 a.m., the baby began coughing in the room next to ours, and I was awake. And then realized something. My belly hurt.

It wasn’t an “oops, too much pizza” kind of hurt. It was a “call my brother to stay with the girls” kind of hurt. A “let me nurse the baby one more time” kind of hurt. A “what the f*ck is happening to me” kind of hurt.

We rushed to Brigham & Women’s, a merciful distance of two miles, where I was like a case from the show “House” for a few hours.

Gallbladder? Nope.

Appendix? Uh-uh.

Pregnant? NO.

It would have been kind of cool, the mystery of it all, except that I was too busy begging for morphine to notice. When my arms began to feel paralyzed and my mouth went numb, I just wanted them to fix it. Fix me. Come on, body. Hold it together.

The CT scan solved the mystery. There was a tiny hole in the tissue lining my intestine, and apparently my small intestine, that little rascal, had snuck into that hole, twisted himself up, and died. There was no choice but to operate. Immediately. Another 10-12 hours, and I could be a goner. Really, body? You were going to try to kill me today?

So around 7:30 a.m., when I’d normally be feeding little mouths at the breakfast table, sipping my second cup of coffee, I was bidding Nick a teary goodbye, relaying ill-prepared final messages for our girls, and rolling into the operating room.

When I came to, things were looking up. I was alive. And my belly felt better. I did, however, have a huge incision (no dainty little laparoscopic scar for me!), not unlike the caesarean cut turned up on its side. It was like a little joke on me after three natural, vaginal childbirths. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Head Surgeon told us that he removed 14 inches of my small intestine, which seemed like an alarming amount to Nick and me, but he waved his hand casually, saying the whole thing was close to 20 feet. Who knew you could give some up?! Maybe my food-to-waste process would simply be more efficient now, without all that extra winding. Things were definitely looking up.

But once the feel-good drugs wore off a bit, and I found myself attached to a dozen different devices, including an NG (nasogastric) tube, which runs down the nose and into the stomach (delightful!), I stopped whistling my happy tune. What in the world just happened? How could I go from dinner table to operating table in the span of a few hours? There had been no warning, no time to think. I hadn’t even kissed the girls one last “just in case” time as they slept.

Yeah, I was scared. And I was pissed off, too. At my body. My body, who I had treated pretty well, all things considered. I had played competitive sports in college. Had run the Boston Marathon. Was still active, healthy. Ate my veggies. Drank in moderation. Always wore a seatbelt.

And my body had always been good to me in return. I rarely got sick. I was strong, had good balance. And over the last six years, my body had grown three beautiful little girls inside it. So why was it turning on me now?

"Well, hello there, stranger!" Reunited with my baby for the first time post-surgery.
“Well, hello there, stranger!” Reunited with my baby for the first time post-surgery.

I imagine many of you have felt this way at one time or another. And I can only imagine the intensity of this feeling for those of you who have had cancer or have suffered a miscarriage or stillbirth. How can such bad things happen within our own selves?

I stared up at the hospital room’s white ceiling tiles, listening to the whine of my NG tube. And since I was still here, still breathing, and still buddied up with this one body, I decided to forgive it.

All right, body. That was a good one. You really had me there. Now here’s what we’re going to do: We’re going to accept these ice chips without vomiting. Tolerate the numerous blood draws and heparin shots. Not eat for 90 hours and then be grateful for that first nibble of lukewarm eggs. And we’re going to walk the hospital halls again and again so the nurses see how strong we are, and how much we want to go home. How we have too much waiting for us there to be here.

If you do all that for me, body, I’ll do my best to trust that you won’t pull another stunt like this for awhile. And maybe I’ll even treat you to some yoga.

Deal? Deal.

 

Jessie Keppeler
A Maine native, Jessie migrated down the coast to Boston after college, and it’s been home ever since. She has lived in various corners of the city — from Allston and Brighton to Newbury Street and then Jamaica Plain — before settling in Brookline with her husband and three daughters. As much as she loves home now, she also likes to leave occasionally: recent family travels include Italy, Belize, and Washington D.C. Jessie writes with a cat curled up nearby and a dog at her feet. And a cup of coffee. Always.