My Fucking Stomach

A day in the life of Jaye…

Lately I have been lying around, thinking about all the shit that I’ve been through over the past two years—medically and physically. I can’t lie. It’s kinda hard not to when I’m forced to lay in my bed with my stomach protruding in fucking pain, looking like I’m eight months pregnant, with a headache so sharp it feels like you’re getting stabbed in the head. 

I’m man-down and stuck here until whatever is going on with my stomach subsides. Whenever the fuck that is. I can’t figure out what triggers it or what helps it.

My stomach just randomly does this thing whenever it feels like it and it’s fucking sad, it’s depressing, it’s disruptive in more ways than one.

And I cant help but wonder, is this the way I am now after having two open heart surgeries? Is this my life now?

I’m so tired—sick and tired of being sick. Constantly fighting to get to the bottom of what the fuck is wrong with me, time and time again—it’s mentally fucking exhausting.

It’s not hard to see how the depression part of this all plays out. Your fucking life is wiped. And there you are, just you trying to figure out how life is going to be now physically mentally. Or productively.

Can’t plan shit in this state—almost 16 weeks post-surgery. Some days I’m flying high—I feel strong, healthy, resilient. And other days my stomach does what it does, and I’m licked down—not just physically. It fucks with my mind.

I was supposed to start cardiac rehab on Monday—which is basically the gym with nurse practitioners keeping six—and I was so looking forward to that. But now it’s looking like there’s a 50/50 fucking chance I’ll be okay on Monday. My life lately has been just as fucked up as the weather. And God forbid it does what it does when I’m not home—in public.

I’ve done all the things—stopped eating solids, drank all the gut-friendly concoctions. I do the “I LOVE U” massage on my stomach daily, and still—not even temporary relief. It’s been like this steady for almost a week. The natural wave-like muscle that contracts to move food through your digestive system—the peristalsis in my body—is broken. Shut down. My gut is fucked royally.

The ups and downs are taking their toll on me. I wanna fly—but there’s a fucking boulder tied to my leg I can’t cut loose. Ya, I know I should give myself some grace. But I’m fucking tired. It hasn’t been two weeks. It hasn’t been months. It’s been two fucking years.

And when I think about all the trauma my body’s been through, I can’t help but wonder—Is this my life now? Still a constant battle. Never the same. Never ending.

I had a great weekend—pretty perfect, actually. On Friday, I saw my cardiologist and my test results were good. I had dinner with my brother—hadn’t seen him in almost two years. I went to Jack’s briefly and saw a lot of people I hadn’t seen in a while—which was different, but nice. I had my granddaughter Saturday, and my son was home—I couldn’t ask for a better weekend. And then Monday came, and boom—it hit like a sucker punch.

It forces me to think about my situation and everything that I’ve been through. What’s brought me to here, right now. These posts are fucking heart-wrenching for me. I just wanna be normal. Or at least know what my new normal is.

It’s like I’m not allowed to plan fun. The concert I went to a couple weeks ago with Adrianna was pure fucking luck—it was the best time I’ve had since I went to the ballet back in March. 

Right now I’m so fucking hungry, and I’m afraid to eat. Standing up in the kitchen in this state isn’t even possible. I try, and it just fucking hurts—it’s heavy, it’s exhausting. I can’t be on my feet. My fucking headache won’t allow it.

All I’ve been eating since Sunday is fucking berries, yogurt with honey, these gut-friendly drink concoctions, and fucking baby food. I’m on a tight leash, man.

I don’t know if I could live like this. It’s fucked up.

Hydrate—holy fuck, that’s my middle name. Watermelon, pineapple, cucumber, lemon, ginger, chia seeds, beets, celery, apple—mixed all the recommended ways. 

I push myself, and and there I am in the kitchen like a fucking chemist, suffering, trying to make the right potion. And then I sit up, straight back with my legs folded and crossed, for at least an hour hoping that it’s gonna fucking go down. Just fucking woof—get that wave going—praying it starts back up.

I feel like I should just not eat for a few days—fast. While sucking down this shit really isn’t eating. But then I don’t think my body is strong enough to even be doing that right now with all the medication I’m on. So ya—I’m fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t.

I miss food—crunchy food, chewable food. Chips, cheese—for fuck sakes. What the fuck is life without food? Fucking berries. I’m eating berries like I’m a fucking bear—I don’t even fucking like berries, but I’m doing it.

My body is bipolar physically, which is fucking with me mentally.  At times I feel expanded, extremely bloated, super uncomfortable. And when it goes away, I feel frail, weak, skinny. I’m not meant to be skinny. I don’t wanna be skinny. Who the fuck wants to be aging and skinny? Not fucking me.

I’m cool with my thickness, but day by day, I’m dwindling.

I actually tried to bulk up before this second surgery, because after the first surgery the weight loss hit me hard and fast—but it didn’t this time. Not until now.

I don’t know what to do, and it seems like nobody else knows what to do either.

The next thing that’s gonna happen—the only thing left to do—is a scope. More medical fucking fun, to find out if there’s inflammation, or an obstruction, or whatever the fuck is going on. So till then, here I ly, off and on, in pain.

The words ring through my head when I hit a roadblock like this: “Your full-time job now is taking care of your body.” And ya, clearly I get that—but does it ever fucking end? Will it end?

Is this what life looks like after open-heart surgery for me? The past two years were tough. I don’t know if I can go another two years to find out if this is my permanent life now—it’s too fucking much.

If I knew it was only two years—that I could tough out. But the not knowing—it’s too much.

That’s how I feel sometimes. It’s trying to break me. And the darkness sits right there—waiting. It’s knowing that it’s sitting right there that won’t let me succumb—it can’t have me.

So ya, the shit you see on my personal social media mamajammajaye—videos, posts, pics—they’re there for me. Because when I feel like shit, like this, and when I feel hopeless, I go to that page and look at those posts. They give me hope. They remind me of how life can be—how life is when I’m not like this.

I’m lying on the couch right now writing this, waiting for my Instacart order—on an empty stomach.

And on this empty stomach, I’m gonna try one more concoction.

Wish me luck!!