The Barf Tunnel

Recovering from a big surgery has been like crawling through a cave of ick. Yay that cancer is out of my body! Yet this has been the hardest part of the healing experience.

A slim, weak 160 pound me

I’ve been in the barf tunnel.

But I’m on my way out, to a stretch of life beyond chemo, surgery and cancer.

The barf tunnel is a metaphor for grueling, unpleasant times. I learned about it years ago from a friend, who said it applies to breakups and other periods of hardship.

The idea is that you’re crawling through grossness. Vomit drips down from the ceiling and walls. So much so that you can’t see more than a few inches in front of you.

That means you never know how close you are to the end. There’s little to no “light at the end of the tunnel.” So you’re constantly tempted to quit and retreat–when liberation and success may be right within reach.

The Barf Tunnel

In my case, the barf tunnel has been all too literal as I convalesce from a big belly surgery January 21.

I’ve never vomited as much as I have in the past few weeks. At night. During the day. Just as I was taking medicine to calm my tummy.

Unfortunately, puking is one of many problems that have surfaced.

The surgery succeeded in removing appendix cancer that had spread throughout my gut, including to my spleen and gallbladder. It’s been hard to celebrate that big win, though, amid the challenges of recovery. Healing from the operation hasn’t been linear. And it has made the tribulations of 12 rounds of chemotherapy seem relatively easy.

Seven days in the hospital were not fun. I had at least a dozen different tubes or devices attached to me, including an intravenous line put in my neck.

The docs literally went for the jugular during the surgery!

I tried to keep a sense of humor along the way. But that was hard, as aches and pains piled up even after I got home.

With my core muscles cut in half, I strained muscles in my chest. That made it painful to breathe. Which made it hard to sleep.

I’ve whipsawed between constipation and diarrhea. I’ve experienced back pain and day-long stomach aches.

Yes, the surgery has been slimming. I’ve lost 30 pounds. But at 160 pounds, I now look gaunt. And I mostly lost muscle–leaving me so weak I’m winded climbing the two flights of stairs to my apartment.

The other thing I lost was my voice. Intubation during the surgery apparently paralyzed my vocal chords. That made communicating with nurses, doctors and loved ones frustrating.

Thankfully, my physical voice has gradually returned. But my figurative voice has largely been quieted. The surgery has sapped me of the energy to write or do virtually anything work-related.

I’d been warned about all this. My surgeon told me that recovering from the 10-hour operation would take 6-8 weeks. And even with all the hurdles, I’m largely on the right track to heal fully.

So I’m trying to focus on the positive. I can’t lie and say I’m excited about two weeks or more of difficulties. But I am grateful that I feel well enough to compose this note. And that this surgery recovery is the last phase in a nearly year-long process of treating and healing from appendix cancer.

I’m also grateful that this sucky time keeps supplying gifts and insights–such as a deeper appreciation for care providers; constant examples of how huge-hearted human beings can be; and a reminder that healing requires surrender besides a fighting spirit.

So the slog continues.

I’m still in the barf tunnel. But at the moment I’m wearing a smile amid the slime. And I’m going to keep crawling.