[As ever, still trying to figure out what, exactly, this blog is about these days. Recently, I’ve been considering going back to shorter, more personal, more storytelling-focused posts. But, problematically, it’s tough to just hop into the middle of life’s narrative, because so much of what’s happening now requires reference to other stuff that happened recently before, which requires reference to what happened before that, etc.

For example, in the last few days, I’ve wanted to post three or four things related to my recent hernia surgery. But, for that to make any sense, I probably need to write about having had hernia surgery, and before that having had the hernia, and so on.

But, really, if I want to start narrating my life here again at some point, now seems as good a point as any other. So, I’m quickly recapping the hernia thing, skipping everything before that for the moment, and then just rolling forward.]

When I was four years old, I had hernia surgery, to resolve a left-side inguinal hernia I’d apparently been born with.

When I was fifteen, I then had another hernia surgery, to sew up one on the right side.

Not long after, I discovered I also had a minor epigastric hernia, which was similarly almost certainly congenital. But, as it didn’t really cause me problems, I just kind of ignored it for the next twenty-five years.

Last year, however, coming back to the gym after lockdown time off, the hernia started to bulge a bit. I’m not sure whether it was my too quick ramping back up of heavy lifting after the long, relatively sedentary stretch (during which time I hadn’t picked up anything heavier than a 24kg kettlebell), or my chunking up (for me, at least—crossing above the 15% body fat mark) putting additional strain on my already-perforated linea alba. But, whatever it was, the hernia started to cause discomfort in a way that it never had before.

From a read of the research, it looked like a laparoscopic repair was my best bet, especially in terms of preventing recurrence once I returned to my hobby (and arguably vocation) of picking up heavy things. But, it turns out, epigastric hernia surgery is actually relatively rare (at least as compared to the more common inguinal or umbilical hernias). So, finding someone with a bunch of experience doing the surgery—and doing it laparoscopically—was tougher than I’d expected.

Eventually, I realized I needed to find bariatric surgeons, as a gastric bypass or lap band is also often done laprascopically, and at pretty much the same spot in the abdomen as I was looking to get some mesh tacked on internally.

Which is how I ended up, last Friday, in a waiting room at Mt. Sinai, where I definitely didn’t blend with the rest of the patients. (As the surgeon joked, there at least wasn’t much chance of a mix-up with me getting someone else’s procedure by mistake.)

A couple of hours after that, I was back out the door, walking (albeit slowly, and with Jess poised watchfully at my side, just in case) to a taxi home. I’ve now—finally—sealed up all three of the small abdominal wall holes I was born with. (I feel like I should send the hospital bill to my parents, as this is clearly a manufacturing defect.) Though I’ve also now picked up three new little holes—tiny laparoscope insertion-point incisions that are currently covered with enough Dermabond that I’m not entirely sure what they look like. So, I guess, three holes forward, three holes back?

Anyway, at two days out, I haven’t needed anything stronger than Advil, have been walking up a storm to kickstart recovery, and have been supplementing with anything and everything (HMB, Bromelain, Vitamin E, Zinc, etc.) that might help. I wouldn’t exactly recommend the experience as a way to kill a spring weekend. But, in the grand scheme of things, it really hasn’t been bad at all, and, thus far, I’m feeling about as excellent as I could possibly hope.