Just call me the Bionic Princess

I took a trip the other day. We were in the car, but the mode of transportation for this particular voyage was a rather peculiar and bizarre mental permutation carrying me to an other-worldly destination, no weed involved.

Yes, I was trippin’.  

Although I took no pleasure in it.

We were driving back from an appointment with a surgeon a week after having the most bizarre operation of my life. And that is saying a lot.

You probably know I have type 1 diabetes. And you probably know I have gastro-intestinal issues due to the diabetes. What you may not know is that those issues became so problematic, drastic measures needed to be taken.

When you hear the word “implant” your mind probably takes you to a visual of the female anatomy in a “big” way. At least that’s where my mind automatically goes - what that says about me I don’t know.

You probably didn’t think “Enterra” (hereby known affectionately as “Terry”), a gastric pacemaker of sorts.

{Insert warning here. The following description is not for the faint of heart.}

Here’s what it is: A machine implanted into my abdominal wall, just left of and below my now saggy belly button. (The poor thing. What did they DO to me under that general anesthetic?!?) Attached to the machine are two wires, now woven through my abdomen and attached to either side of my outer stomach lining.

Here’s what it is supposed to do: Stimulate my stomach to empty and my intestines to contract by sending an electrical current up the wires to the nerve endings in the stomach, thus creating movement and a satisfying result, if you catch my drift.

Here’s what’s happening: The current, while supposedly not strong enough to actually contract muscle on contact, has been causing me electrical pain in my tummy and up under my ribs. Thus the trip back to the surgeon to have Terry turned down. (I think he has ADHD.)

It’s been enough of an adjustment having this hard lump flopping around in my flab (picture me rolling over in bed...kathump, kathump each time I roll - lovely imagery, I know.) It got really weird though, when I was laying on the exam table with the doctor holding a mobile phone-sized device up to my belly saying, “It uses Bluetooth technology,” as he tapped the screen a couple of times.  It took 22.5 seconds to change the settings and “calm Terry down.”

What the heck kind of world do we live in?!? Seriously. I am like the Bionic Woman of the 21^st Century!

Instead of superpowers though, I have gained a few limitations. Apparently, avoiding an MRI is a MUST (possible death) and I am no longer able to go through security scanners at airports. (I am a card carrying member of this “feel me up only” club.) The doc also said to avoid hanging around the security beepers in front of retail stores. Good grief. Does he not KNOW how much I like to SHOP?!?!?

Oh and get this...eating triggers pain. Good grief. Does he not KNOW how much I like to EAT?!?! A few bites an hour is about as much as I can handle. On the bright side, who needs a diet club when you have Terry as your new best friend?

Even though heart pacemakers have been around for years, Enterra is new technology and there are still many questions revolving around it. I have spoken with five medical professionals about Terry, and EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM said, “No one really knows how or why it works, just that it does in some people.” As I appreciate their honesty, CONFIDENCE is not exactly what I take from that statement.

Terry boasts a 50% success rate, so here’s hoping the other woman having the surgery last week gets no result. No, no. That’s terrible. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Here’s hoping that starting with me and her, the odds jump to 100%!

In case you are wondering, since the Bluetooth tweak, symptoms have settled but not disappeared. And although it is too soon to tell for sure, I have not received any major benefit on the throne, as much as I try to regain my title as princess.

The good news?

Don assures me I am still his princess.

What was that? Oh...

As in high maintenance.

Right.

Well.

Still.

I think I deserve a new pair of shoes for going through all of this, don’t you?

There should be at least a couple of implant “perks.” ;)

 

 

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