I have accepted a job offer in Morristown, NJ, effectively closing the door on returning to South Korea.
While anything can have a "...for now" affixed to its end, the last time I came home from Korea, I didn't go back for over four years. The circumstances were different. I had not come and gone, then came, and went again. I didn't fortuitously fall into a job (I at first dismissed as a fly-by-night and ignored or until they contacted me again!) that would pay me much more than I have ever made before, more than I could make in South Korea, even though most of my basic expenses were covered by the school. This time it's different; I don't have a good reason to go back.
Before I got this job offer, I might have had a semi-legitimate case for the possibility. I could try to spin coming home into simply because the thought of major surgery in a foreign country had been too much, not that it, plus intense homesickness and some culture shock, plus a less-than-vested interest in teaching, was starting to cut at me. But, that was before accepting the first "career path" job I have had in 18 months. What's my case now?
But, don't cry for me, South Korea.
One door closes, another opens. I'm lucky to have had many doors close, only to have other doors open. My car dies? My brother gives me his. I break up with my girlfriend and move out of our apartment? I have a family friend willing to let me stay in her guest bedroom. I come back from South Korea to get gallbladder surgery? Charity Care pays for the entire procedure while I am unemployed and uninsured. Then, after sending countless resumes out to various companies offering anything from proofreading gigs to editing the back of porn DVD cases, I finally get a job, and it's not one I sent a resume out for; they contacted me.
But, even though this new open door holds a lot of interesting possibilities, there always remains a bit of sadness at the conclusion to an adventure. Only natural, yeah? You establish in your mind a certain set of parameters, rules, standards. And, then, it's time for them to change. Even if the new set of standards is preferable, your off-center mind sometimes looks back on those old, difficult, perhaps warped standards from yesterday with nostalgic fondness. It's only natural. That was your experience.
This chapter, this story, this arc is over...
... for now.
Speaking of warped standards of nostalgic fondness...
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Before I Ever Forget
Before I ever forget about the subtleties of living in Busan, South Korea...
In the morning, I would leave my apartment, walk down the single flight, head out, turn left down the alley, turn left onto the road, turn left onto the main road toward the Deokcheon subway entrance. The small business on the corner warehousing particle board would be hard at work piling wood into the back of those El Camino-like pickup trucks so ubiquitous in Korea. I would, most certainly later in my brief tenure, be smoking a cigarette and would at this point finish it off at the entrance to the subway. Sometimes, the man tending to the free morning newspaper stand would be restocking. Sometimes, one of the cabbies that waited for people to emerge from the subway would be outside of his Hyundai or Kia smoking his own cigarette -- we never did say hello. After I finished my smoke, I would usually pull my Sansa Clip from my front pocket, turn it on, and tune out.
Sometimes, I would get a small coffee from Coffee Tomato. Coffee Tomato is a silly name, it was coffee from Italy, or something like that. I guess that was the association. They made the coffee in a nice way -- single drip -- but it was usually pretty bland, tasteless. At least it was better than Maxim.
After I got my coffee, I would usually head straightaway to the subway headed toward Namsanjeong station, two stops away. On this track, the newest of the three train lines, a monitor would play in a 5-to-10 minute loop the same commercials over and over and over. There was the Wings conference, some sort of Korean Christian concert or something that happened in February, but continued to be promoted well into late March. There was Busan Women's University, with its laughing, pretty Korean lasses, one of them participating in some exercise routine where it looks like she was giving a karate chop. There was something in Korean about the subway car itself, or the subway system, or subway safety, which showed nothing but foreigners and a foreign subway system. Then, near the end of my stay, there was the commercial promoting tomatoes.
Oh, yes, the one promoting tomatoes, with its too happy children, maniacally laughing grandfather, sexy, saucy dancing girl and, wrapping it all up, the effeminate chef, probably talking about how, like every other food product coming out of Korea, Korean tomatoes will cure cancer, give you more energy and probably even give you a long-lasting boner.
After going through the commercials, the train would stop at my destination. I would step-off amidst several running (they were always running) Koreans, head upstairs, place my subway pass card key on the sensor, walk through, head up another set of stairs and up the hill toward Mandeok Elementary. Sometimes, but very rarely, that escalator ride up to the surface would be met by the brightest, most blazing sun. Rarely.
Sometimes, I'd have another cigarette. I would usually walk a little away from the entrance, just in case any of my students saw me, which was completely possible. We were only about half-a-mile away from the school. After that, I set to walking among the other people, heading with or away from Mandeok. Sometimes, this really nice 4th grader with the world's most excellent hair but almost zero grasp on English, would see me and say hello, along with his sister, a 5th grader with also pretty low English levels but an infectious, even dopey smile. Sometimes, we would walk a little of the way together before separating in the throng.
As I approached the school and turned the corner left into the dusty dirt play area (all elementary schools in Korea seem to same the exact same dusty dirt play area), I would sometimes see the vice principal at the entrance, and we would exchange a bow. At this point I would turn off my mp3 player, wrap up the cord and put it in my pocket. Those students who were in my classes (and even plenty that were not) would see me and say "hello, teacher!" or "hello, John teacher!" or simply "hello!", especially the younger ones, where that, like "hola!" was probably the only foreign word they knew.
I would climb those steep, steep stone steps, sometimes two at a time, slip inside the glass doors, slip off my shoes and put them in my little shoe locker at the front entrance as I pulled out my rubbery sandals I'd bought at a Daeso dollar store after it became clear the school-provided sandals were about four sizes too small for my caveman American feet. I'd slip the sandals on, likely saying hello to a teacher in the process, head up to the second floor, to "English World", where I would sit down, shake the remaining cobwebs from my head, and attempt to start my day.
In the morning, I would leave my apartment, walk down the single flight, head out, turn left down the alley, turn left onto the road, turn left onto the main road toward the Deokcheon subway entrance. The small business on the corner warehousing particle board would be hard at work piling wood into the back of those El Camino-like pickup trucks so ubiquitous in Korea. I would, most certainly later in my brief tenure, be smoking a cigarette and would at this point finish it off at the entrance to the subway. Sometimes, the man tending to the free morning newspaper stand would be restocking. Sometimes, one of the cabbies that waited for people to emerge from the subway would be outside of his Hyundai or Kia smoking his own cigarette -- we never did say hello. After I finished my smoke, I would usually pull my Sansa Clip from my front pocket, turn it on, and tune out.
Sometimes, I would get a small coffee from Coffee Tomato. Coffee Tomato is a silly name, it was coffee from Italy, or something like that. I guess that was the association. They made the coffee in a nice way -- single drip -- but it was usually pretty bland, tasteless. At least it was better than Maxim.
After I got my coffee, I would usually head straightaway to the subway headed toward Namsanjeong station, two stops away. On this track, the newest of the three train lines, a monitor would play in a 5-to-10 minute loop the same commercials over and over and over. There was the Wings conference, some sort of Korean Christian concert or something that happened in February, but continued to be promoted well into late March. There was Busan Women's University, with its laughing, pretty Korean lasses, one of them participating in some exercise routine where it looks like she was giving a karate chop. There was something in Korean about the subway car itself, or the subway system, or subway safety, which showed nothing but foreigners and a foreign subway system. Then, near the end of my stay, there was the commercial promoting tomatoes.
Oh, yes, the one promoting tomatoes, with its too happy children, maniacally laughing grandfather, sexy, saucy dancing girl and, wrapping it all up, the effeminate chef, probably talking about how, like every other food product coming out of Korea, Korean tomatoes will cure cancer, give you more energy and probably even give you a long-lasting boner.
After going through the commercials, the train would stop at my destination. I would step-off amidst several running (they were always running) Koreans, head upstairs, place my subway pass card key on the sensor, walk through, head up another set of stairs and up the hill toward Mandeok Elementary. Sometimes, but very rarely, that escalator ride up to the surface would be met by the brightest, most blazing sun. Rarely.
Sometimes, I'd have another cigarette. I would usually walk a little away from the entrance, just in case any of my students saw me, which was completely possible. We were only about half-a-mile away from the school. After that, I set to walking among the other people, heading with or away from Mandeok. Sometimes, this really nice 4th grader with the world's most excellent hair but almost zero grasp on English, would see me and say hello, along with his sister, a 5th grader with also pretty low English levels but an infectious, even dopey smile. Sometimes, we would walk a little of the way together before separating in the throng.
As I approached the school and turned the corner left into the dusty dirt play area (all elementary schools in Korea seem to same the exact same dusty dirt play area), I would sometimes see the vice principal at the entrance, and we would exchange a bow. At this point I would turn off my mp3 player, wrap up the cord and put it in my pocket. Those students who were in my classes (and even plenty that were not) would see me and say "hello, teacher!" or "hello, John teacher!" or simply "hello!", especially the younger ones, where that, like "hola!" was probably the only foreign word they knew.
I would climb those steep, steep stone steps, sometimes two at a time, slip inside the glass doors, slip off my shoes and put them in my little shoe locker at the front entrance as I pulled out my rubbery sandals I'd bought at a Daeso dollar store after it became clear the school-provided sandals were about four sizes too small for my caveman American feet. I'd slip the sandals on, likely saying hello to a teacher in the process, head up to the second floor, to "English World", where I would sit down, shake the remaining cobwebs from my head, and attempt to start my day.
Monday, June 07, 2010
What Does a Morphine and Benadryl Cocktail Taste Like?
With the pain shooting through what felt like every part of my body, and Panda desperately wanting to sleep in the chair next to my hospital bed, the head nurse in Todd 6 East suggested a dose of morphine with a dose of Benadryl. As I stood by the station, clutching my IV machine, trying not to move certain ways that made the needles shoot just a little sharper, I thought it as good an idea as any.
She went over to the drug dispensing machine and began entering codes for what was called a "breakthrough dose". Oh, how I longed for my breakthroughs. A breakthrough! Eureka! I'll get stoned! Maybe that will help.
Tap-tap-tap, she went on a keypad. Click, one drawer opened, and she pulled out a dose of one drug. Tap-tap-tap, click, and out came another. It might have only been a minute or two, but it felt like forever.
First came the shot of morphine through the portal near the entryway, where the needle had been sitting my vein now for five days. That had become as natural an extension of me as had the pain. As much as I wanted it to go away, the pain felt like it had been with me, and would always be with me. So, I needed to keep it at bay. I just needed to calm it.
Next came the Benadryl, followed by a saline flush to get both well on their way through. Oh, yes. I could feel my head go light and my extremities tingle. For a moment, it felt like this cocktail was going to work.
But, the pain was still there. Clearly, it was still there. But, it was not there. It was in the other room. I could hear it yelling at me, telling me, "you'll be sorry for locking me up in here. The key's around here somewhere, and when I find it, you'll be sorry."
As Panda laid me back in the bed, the bed I had not been able to lay in for hours and hours because the pain in my back had felt like muscles separating from bone, I allowed myself a little smile. Brief. I could feel the pain, but it was in the other room. That's the best way, the most appropriate way I can describe it. Because it was still there. Clearly, the pain was still there, still apparent, not masked in any way. I could feel the pain, and yet I could not feel the pain. The Benadryl/Morphine mixture had circulated fully through me now, and I was pulsating. It was a good feeling, and I might just be able to get to sleep, finally. And maybe when I wake up, this pain will have subsided and I can get ready to go home.
I woke up 45 minutes later. The pain had found the key.
She went over to the drug dispensing machine and began entering codes for what was called a "breakthrough dose". Oh, how I longed for my breakthroughs. A breakthrough! Eureka! I'll get stoned! Maybe that will help.
Tap-tap-tap, she went on a keypad. Click, one drawer opened, and she pulled out a dose of one drug. Tap-tap-tap, click, and out came another. It might have only been a minute or two, but it felt like forever.
First came the shot of morphine through the portal near the entryway, where the needle had been sitting my vein now for five days. That had become as natural an extension of me as had the pain. As much as I wanted it to go away, the pain felt like it had been with me, and would always be with me. So, I needed to keep it at bay. I just needed to calm it.
Next came the Benadryl, followed by a saline flush to get both well on their way through. Oh, yes. I could feel my head go light and my extremities tingle. For a moment, it felt like this cocktail was going to work.
But, the pain was still there. Clearly, it was still there. But, it was not there. It was in the other room. I could hear it yelling at me, telling me, "you'll be sorry for locking me up in here. The key's around here somewhere, and when I find it, you'll be sorry."
As Panda laid me back in the bed, the bed I had not been able to lay in for hours and hours because the pain in my back had felt like muscles separating from bone, I allowed myself a little smile. Brief. I could feel the pain, but it was in the other room. That's the best way, the most appropriate way I can describe it. Because it was still there. Clearly, the pain was still there, still apparent, not masked in any way. I could feel the pain, and yet I could not feel the pain. The Benadryl/Morphine mixture had circulated fully through me now, and I was pulsating. It was a good feeling, and I might just be able to get to sleep, finally. And maybe when I wake up, this pain will have subsided and I can get ready to go home.
I woke up 45 minutes later. The pain had found the key.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Ace
An ordinary sentence, but when viewed through the prism of early last week, it's a miracle.
Everyday I am getting stronger. My body is healing from the surgery and I am again participating in normal activities. I went out with the Smith's and co. last night in Princeton for beer and burgers and Triumph. Abes noticed I was thinner. Had he seen me last week, I probably would have been even more trim. With this whole ability to eat fattier foods and not have gallbladder attacks, I have taken advantage of that several times -- Indian buffet, steak dinners, Triumph burgers. I'll be rolling out of bed in a different way soon enough.
It has now been one month and 16 days since I left South Korea. Unlike in 2005, it feels like I never really went, though I know I did. I still have the friends, thankfully, to show for it.
On a lark, I asked my old recruiter via Skype whether, since the gallbladder surgery (the main reason for leaving SK early a second time) has been conducted and I am on the mend, if English Program in Korea (EPiK) would take me back for another go. I expected something along the lines of, "maybe, but I would not recommend it," or "I don't think so. There is worry that you will bail out on your contract again, and neither they, nor I, can afford the risk."
Instead, I got: "They would take you on again. They thought you were great."
Really? Me? Great? The guy that left the hospital after sitting in the bed? After having blood drawn, X-rays performed, after being less than 24 hours from getting his guts cut open, old-school style, then basically telling his school there was no way in hell he was going to stay for surgery and, by extension, no way he could continue teaching? Not even until the next pay cycle? Not even until they found a replacement, which would not come for over another month? The guy that did all that? He's great?
I did pay the 1.3 million won back that was owed them for backing out of my contract early. That must count for something.
So, it's on the table. Is it? I don't know. Not likely. As I walked back to my car last night with Gregoire, another friend at dinner, I mentioned this new wrinkle and he asked if I would consider going back. "If the gallbladder had not been an issue, would I have found another reason to leave early?" Could it have been a convenient out? The defeatist part in me says it's possible, but I was ready to take this whole experiment in a new direction. I was ready to have good days and soldier through the first three months, that magic number they're always talking about.
And then I was admitted to Boomin Hospital.
Why Korea? Why a third time? Strange as it sounds to some, myself included, it's familiar now. Poland, not only is the pay not as good and the teaching field not as regulated, it's also completely unfamiliar. Czech Republic, for all its glamor, would not pay well and it takes a lot more (TEFL certification, experience) to even be considered there in the first place. South America pays jack. And, I have not researched many of them anyway.
There is always Taiwan. Lippart's there. Not sure how much longer.
In the end, South Korea is familiar, strange as that sounds. It should be familiar -- I've been mapping it out in my head for five years.
EPiK does have its TaLK program. Teach and Learn in Korea. It's six months instead of 12. It pays less, but there is less expected of you. The point is that you go, you teach, but you also learn about Korea and its culture so you can go back and "talk it up" to your friends and family back home. It's an option. If I knew I was committed for half the amount of time, would that make a difference? Is knowing I am there for a full year just too much, "shredded" gallbladder or no? Or, so long as the stars aligned (good school, decent apartment, fair location), could I actually finally, finally complete the year? What's to say any, or all, of those stars would not fall out of the sky and into the ocean?
This is a lot of thought at the moment, nothing more. But, it's still nice to have an ace in my back pocket should I need it.
For anyone with an opinion on one side or the other of that card, you will never know what this is like until you have experienced it, all of it.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
My World in Two Rooms
There was a test conducted a long time ago where normal people were put into a prison and given different roles -- some were inmates, some were guards. And, despite these being ordinary, average folk, who were aware they were in an experiment they could leave at any time, it did not stop the inmates from wilting to the guards, who began to practice brutal force.
They accepted their roles, though only a short time before, they were just like everyone else. They were normal, their lives were normal. Now, those inmates were broken.
For about 48 hours after leaving the hospital, I was broken. And my entire world was reduced to two rooms, the bathroom and the living room. Specifically, the love seat.
I was lost until Panda came and rescued me. Rose Red already sick. Dad concerned but we butt heads. I kept getting frustrated with him, fair or not. My entire body felt like it was breaking, parts felt like they were being twisted like a dripping towel. Nerves stabbed a thousand times. He tried, he meant well. All I wanted to do after throwing up was rest my head on the back of the chair, propped in front of the rocking chair I now sat in. How could he know how to react to my pain? How could anyone?
I was not expecting any of this. No one said it would be like this. Rose Red left the hospital the same day. There wasn't some bile bag sticking from the side of her abdomen that seemed like it would never stop draining. This is so disgusting. But, it's here. It's my reality.
It's Sunday? I have no idea what day it is. It might as well be never. But, it's my reality.
When Panda arrived late, around midnight, I had slept 30 minutes. By the next day, I might have slept four hours over three days. I was delirious. I had never felt that way ever before. It was my reality.
And so was my world -- the loveseat she sat me at, because the shooting pains through my shoulders, my stomach, my abdomen, started to cool while I sat there, and I might have gotten about an hour of dream-riddled sleep. And every time I thought I might have a bowel movement, I stumbled to the bathroom, only to be disappointed because of all the drugs I had taken in the hospital, the morphine, the dilaudid, were nasty about binding you up. I stumbled back to the loveseat, moaning, in pain that felt like it would never subside, though in reality, it had only been with me for a couple days, and would only be with me for a couple days more.
But, it was my reality. My world, in two rooms.
As I type this, over a week later, I'm sitting on that love seat. The air has changed: it's warmer outside, so it's a little warmer in here. I am cross-legged with the laptop resting on, well, my lap. This is something I could not imagine being able to do over a week ago. I would not imagine doing this. The thought just would not have come.
I sympathize with the elderly, the incapacitated, the woman weeping in the waiting room at the clinic last week, the woman who has had a dozen surgeries and had 2/3 of her colon removed. I am lucky. The gallbladder is a routine surgery. Well, it's supposed to be. It usually is. Even four hours on the operating table is nothing compared to what has become a lifetime of suffering for her, a lifetime identified not by whether she likes to watch cop dramas or likes to bake pies or is not very fond of the winter because it makes her ears cold. Her lifetime has become about her illness. That's her life.
I would kill myself.
They accepted their roles, though only a short time before, they were just like everyone else. They were normal, their lives were normal. Now, those inmates were broken.
For about 48 hours after leaving the hospital, I was broken. And my entire world was reduced to two rooms, the bathroom and the living room. Specifically, the love seat.
I was lost until Panda came and rescued me. Rose Red already sick. Dad concerned but we butt heads. I kept getting frustrated with him, fair or not. My entire body felt like it was breaking, parts felt like they were being twisted like a dripping towel. Nerves stabbed a thousand times. He tried, he meant well. All I wanted to do after throwing up was rest my head on the back of the chair, propped in front of the rocking chair I now sat in. How could he know how to react to my pain? How could anyone?
I was not expecting any of this. No one said it would be like this. Rose Red left the hospital the same day. There wasn't some bile bag sticking from the side of her abdomen that seemed like it would never stop draining. This is so disgusting. But, it's here. It's my reality.
It's Sunday? I have no idea what day it is. It might as well be never. But, it's my reality.
When Panda arrived late, around midnight, I had slept 30 minutes. By the next day, I might have slept four hours over three days. I was delirious. I had never felt that way ever before. It was my reality.
And so was my world -- the loveseat she sat me at, because the shooting pains through my shoulders, my stomach, my abdomen, started to cool while I sat there, and I might have gotten about an hour of dream-riddled sleep. And every time I thought I might have a bowel movement, I stumbled to the bathroom, only to be disappointed because of all the drugs I had taken in the hospital, the morphine, the dilaudid, were nasty about binding you up. I stumbled back to the loveseat, moaning, in pain that felt like it would never subside, though in reality, it had only been with me for a couple days, and would only be with me for a couple days more.
But, it was my reality. My world, in two rooms.
As I type this, over a week later, I'm sitting on that love seat. The air has changed: it's warmer outside, so it's a little warmer in here. I am cross-legged with the laptop resting on, well, my lap. This is something I could not imagine being able to do over a week ago. I would not imagine doing this. The thought just would not have come.
I sympathize with the elderly, the incapacitated, the woman weeping in the waiting room at the clinic last week, the woman who has had a dozen surgeries and had 2/3 of her colon removed. I am lucky. The gallbladder is a routine surgery. Well, it's supposed to be. It usually is. Even four hours on the operating table is nothing compared to what has become a lifetime of suffering for her, a lifetime identified not by whether she likes to watch cop dramas or likes to bake pies or is not very fond of the winter because it makes her ears cold. Her lifetime has become about her illness. That's her life.
I would kill myself.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Saturday, May 15 (Misery 24-7)
I was allowed 3mg of morphine every three hours, two percocets every four hours. Not that I could remember what they were called, I was so high. Morphine, morphine, morphine... Novonordisk? Do you think they could give me a jump-over (breakthrough) dosage of Novo Nordisk? What about some Prilosec (percocets)? I just wish they would give me some duodenum (dilaudid, affectionately known as "hospital heroin"), like they did when I first got here. That ultrasound manhandled my abdomen like kneading a rustic loaf. I barely felt a thing. Now, I can't help but feel everything.
It wasn't just constant misery, it was constant misery through a veneer of drugs. I knew where I was, I knew who I was, I knew who you were, but I still just was not there.
The morning began trying to move as little as possible in my bed, my laptop on the hospital tray table, just high enough that I could barely make out what keys I was tapping. My next dose of Novo Nordisk (or was it Prilosec?) would not come for another couple hours. I was still in so much pain. The nurses are definitely conspiring against me; they think I'm a drug addict.
Just in case I don't make it through this, I need to send an e-mail to everyone, so they know what's going on in here:
If I knew then that that tube would not be coming out for almost another week, I might have jumped out of an open window right there. The JP Drain, however, was the least of my problems. The hole the tube in the side of my abdomen was the least of my problems. The operation had been the least of my problems. It was what the operation had left behind.
C02, finding its way into body cavities it's not meant to be in. Needing to find a way out. Pressing on nerves, stabbing them, feeling like every muscle is being impaled. And they tell you to keep walking, that will loosen the gas up, will get it moving. But, it's not working. All you want to do is lay down, is sleep, but when you sit back in bed, your shoulder muscles are being separated from the bone. All you want to do is sleep.
Maybe Dad can help me get a jump-over dose. I need an advocate.
It wasn't just constant misery, it was constant misery through a veneer of drugs. I knew where I was, I knew who I was, I knew who you were, but I still just was not there.
The morning began trying to move as little as possible in my bed, my laptop on the hospital tray table, just high enough that I could barely make out what keys I was tapping. My next dose of Novo Nordisk (or was it Prilosec?) would not come for another couple hours. I was still in so much pain. The nurses are definitely conspiring against me; they think I'm a drug addict.
Just in case I don't make it through this, I need to send an e-mail to everyone, so they know what's going on in here:
questions for resident surgeons rgus morning, written while bedbound because of intense pain
where was dr genalis for explan. need more expln.
told this was one of the worst gallbladders but have still not had full consoltation and was told multiple times i could gave left yesterday
weening seemed extremem from delaudin every three hrs to perco every four and small dose morphine every 6 hours
spasms since 4pm
can i get muscle relaxers
can tube come out please
scared of going home no close rest pl.. closest one hr away
If I knew then that that tube would not be coming out for almost another week, I might have jumped out of an open window right there. The JP Drain, however, was the least of my problems. The hole the tube in the side of my abdomen was the least of my problems. The operation had been the least of my problems. It was what the operation had left behind.
C02, finding its way into body cavities it's not meant to be in. Needing to find a way out. Pressing on nerves, stabbing them, feeling like every muscle is being impaled. And they tell you to keep walking, that will loosen the gas up, will get it moving. But, it's not working. All you want to do is lay down, is sleep, but when you sit back in bed, your shoulder muscles are being separated from the bone. All you want to do is sleep.
Maybe Dad can help me get a jump-over dose. I need an advocate.
Epilogue...?
As I got older, I have felt like everything unique had been experienced. Unless I was traveling to new, exotic locales, tasted new foods I have never consumed, everything had been done before, it was only being reexperienced.
Then I experienced the sensation of having a tube removed from the side of my abdomen.
A vacuum sucking my insides out of a 2cm hole is the best way to describe it. The surgeon said, "OK, now just take in a breath and hold it. It's going to be a little painful and a little weird." And, in a few seconds, it was over.
After spending five days in the hospital, then recovering at Rosemary's, feeling at times like I would rather die (and I am not even exaggerating) than have to feel the pain of C02 running through my chest cavity and into my shoulders again, I have come to the realization that I could have never gone through with this in South Korea, without family, without "Nurse Panda". Not a chance, no chance at all.
But, now it's over. What next?
Then I experienced the sensation of having a tube removed from the side of my abdomen.
A vacuum sucking my insides out of a 2cm hole is the best way to describe it. The surgeon said, "OK, now just take in a breath and hold it. It's going to be a little painful and a little weird." And, in a few seconds, it was over.
After spending five days in the hospital, then recovering at Rosemary's, feeling at times like I would rather die (and I am not even exaggerating) than have to feel the pain of C02 running through my chest cavity and into my shoulders again, I have come to the realization that I could have never gone through with this in South Korea, without family, without "Nurse Panda". Not a chance, no chance at all.
But, now it's over. What next?
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