Sunday, December 21, 2025 – Day 495

Sunday, December 21, 2025

Good morning, everyone.
Four days until Christmas. 🎄

So… back to my feeding tube exchange on Friday. Turns out it’s a little more involved than swapping out a propane tank at Ace Hardware.

Cindy’s sister Barb came along with us to Glenbrook Hospital—partly to support Cindy and partly to help schlep me around. Everything takes more effort these days, especially when winter decides to remind us who’s in charge.

We arrived early, and the O.R. was running ahead of schedule, which meant we could hopefully beat the Friday rush hour on the way home. Bonus. Then we had a surprise visitor—Carrie, a high school friend—who met us at the hospital. Suddenly, my pre-op bay started to feel like a holiday gathering. There was hugging, laughing, and plenty of distraction for Miguel, my nurse.

Miguel was absolutely in the holiday spirit… but he still wanted to enforce the two-visitor rule. So the girls tag-teamed—one stepping out while the other stepped in—keeping Miguel smiling and the party rolling.

Before I knew it, I was whisked away to the O.R. for the swap. This was expected to be a straightforward procedure. My only concern was having to lie flat. When I’m on my back, my diaphragm doesn’t do me any favors, and carbon dioxide builds up fast—panic isn’t far behind. 
“No problem,” Miguel said. “We’ll give you oxygen.”

They slid me from my bed onto the O.R. table, and then the choreography began. Creating a sterile field is a bit like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory—Oompa Loompas appear out of nowhere, shave, scrub, tape, cover, tarp… and then disappear. There’s a flurry of activity, and fifteen minutes later I’m lying there in near silence, waiting.

The doctor arrived. No greeting. No small talk. I guess the five minutes in pre-op was all I was going to get. I was just a number. He didn’t even ask for my date of birth. I thought that was required.

He went straight to the lidocaine shots. Minutes later, firm pressure on my abdomen—then a hard pull on the feeding tube. Hard. I’d been warned not to accidentally tug on it. Apparently, this tube is more secure than they let on.

Fifteen seconds of pulling. Nothing.
Pause. 
More pressure. Stronger. I tightened whatever abdominal muscles I have left and groaned while he pulled again. Another long tug. Still nothing. This tube wasn’t leaving quietly.

They regrouped. When they started again, it felt like the nurse’s hands were trying to reach the table through my abdomen. I turned my head away and yelled, “FUCK!” The doctor pulled like he was landing a world-class musky. Still stuck.

Pause again. No one asked if I was okay.

That’s when Miguel appeared. He’d been charting and must’ve seen my distress. He rubbed my head, trying to calm me. It mattered.

Then they went back in—fully committed. I swear a foot came up onto my abdomen for leverage.

POP.

I looked over. The tube was out, flopping in the doctor’s hands. Relief doesn’t quite cover it, but I was grateful it was finally over.

The nurse cleaned up the blood, and then it was a simple matter of inserting the new tube into the same hole (stoma) and inflating the balloon to keep it in place. I was assured this one isn’t going anywhere. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could use it as a tow line behind a pontoon boat this summer if my grip strength keeps declining.

Miguel wheeled me back to pre-op, and with Cindy’s help I got dressed. I said goodbye to Carrie, and off we went.

It was an interesting experience—certainly more difficult than I expected. And the best part? After all that pulling and organ manhandling, I wasn’t sore. Which is good, because I can’t swallow Tylenol pills anymore—they’re way too big. Crushing them and mixing them with applesauce isn’t much better. They’re unbelievably bitter.

Now all I have to do is learn how to use this new feeding line. It’s different from the last one, so that’s presenting a few challenges. One step forward, two steps back. I’ll fill you in on the details tomorrow.

Have a great Sunday. Love you guys. ❤️