Posted by Nick Capra at 2/24/2012 8:53 AM
I lay there in Dr Shmootz’ office. I was strapped into the exam chair, head toward the ground with my feet toward the ceiling. I lay there in that position for 24 hrs. A nurse watched over me throughout the night. Despite all of the pain and sleep medication, I didn’t sleep for a single minute. I was terrified. The sound of my heart, beating in my ears was deafening. The nurse kept trying to calm me. She helped me urinate into a portable urinal (humiliating) and fed me. I was envisioning that I might be losing my left leg from below the knee…Yes, that might be the most farfetched thing that could happen, given the circumstances. But, that was how I was perceiving things at the moment.
The following morning Dr Shmootz arrived at his office at around 8:30am. He unwrapped my legs and felt for the pulse in my swollen foot. After he was convinced that there was no compartment syndrome, he sent me home. He wanted me back in his office the following morning. I could see by his facial expression that he was still worried. My mother helped me in and out of the car. She had dark circles around her eyes. Obviously, she hadn’t slept a single minute either. I was weak from the sleep deprivation. But, more than that… I was terrified.
I would touch my calves every time I changed the gauze. They felt awful. Completely numb. The implants felt like stone. I broke down sobbing. I wanted them out. I told my mother I wanted them out. She told me not to make quick decisions based on all the fears and pain that I was in. She said that the pain would eventually subside and my legs would heal. I dried my eyes and nodded my head. But, I knew in my heart that these foreign lumps inside of me were not going to work.They certainly hadn’t fixed me. In fact, they had made me so much worse.
My mother massaged my feet. She changed the linens on my bed. She helped me get up and down every time I wanted to move. She cooked for me. She was literally my round-the-clock nurse. I was so helpless and broken.
My boyfriend came to my mom’s house every night. He brought me gummy bears (my favorite candy) and ice cream. He held my hand and kissed my tear streaked face. He was miserable, too.
Every morning I was taken to see Dr Shmootz so he could exam my legs. The incisions were stitched tightly together behind each knee. My legs were both swollen, but the left still much worse than the right. Dr Shmootz was not able to give me any reasonable explanation as to why that was.
At my mom’s, I was just trying to manage the chore of trying to move from one place to the next. I had a walker. It was really difficult to use, though. Both of my legs were weak and swollen. I couldn’t even stand in the shower. I had to sit in a plastic chair and try to wash myself as best as I could. The pain was unspeakable. Worse, was the way my body was metabolizing the pain meds. I was initially given Vicodin, which made me vomit every time I took them. Next, Percoset, which for some reason was giving me horrible panic attacks.
Days went by. I was not adjusting to the implants physically or psychologically. They really freaked me out. They felt so hard and foreign in my body. I felt like a monster. I had gone into this surgery as an overly insecure man. I came out so much worse. Physically crippled. Frail. Broken. I felt monstrous.
A week passed. Still no change. Left leg still far more swollen then the right one. I even saw Dr Shmootz on Sundays when his practice was closed. He would have me come to his office. He would show up in his biking shorts and perfect tan and check on me. He would mutter something about an improvement. My mother would ask him in a cold, angry tone, “What improvement??” He told her that I was wiggling my feet much better. She rolled her eyes at him and asked him when I would be able to walk again. He had no answer for her. All he could do was order me back into his office the following morning.
**Note to anyone who has never had cosmetic surgery: Being seen by the surgeon every day after surgery is NOT normal protocol. Normal protocol is for the surgeon to examine you the day after surgery for post op. Then you get cleared because the surgery went successfully and they see you in another week.
What happened to the promise that I would be walking with a slight limp just a few days after surgery?!? Dr Shmootz knew that something wasn’t right. He tried to reassure me and my mother that he was just watching this closely to make sure nothing was wrong. But, there was something wrong. It just hadn’t manifested with physical symptoms quite yet.
I was sent to physical therapy. There, I was massaged, worked out lightly, and pushed to try to walk with the assistance of a cane. It wasn’t really working. I still needed a walker. This was so humiliating. I am a 6’2″, 210lb man whom, prior to surgery, worked out 5-6 days a week!
Misery ran deep inside of me like a vast ocean encompassing my world. Depression was an understatement. Sometimes I was borderline hysterical. Trapped inside this crippled body. Every night I would break down crying in my boyfriend’s arms. I just wanted the fucking implants out! But, everyone kept telling me to give them a chance. The people in my inner circle just kept telling me to wait until I wasn’t feeling so emotional before I made a decision. But, I had already made a firm decision in my mind. These fuckers were coming out of my legs! And thankfully, the Universe was quickly working to guide me.
Our thoughts manifest energy that is received somewhere out there in the Universe. If I think about something long enough, faithfully enough, it usually always seems to perpetuate situations that arise to support my thoughts.
Almost 2 weeks after the surgery, I was still not walking on my own. Dr Shmootz ordered me to see the physical therapist 3 days a week. On the 11th day after my surgery I was laying on my stomach at the physical therapy office, cringing in pain. The therapist was massaging my still very swollen left leg, when a clear liquid started to stream out of the incision. The stitches were still holding the wounds together tightly, so my first thought was that a stitch must have popped. My therapist told me this wasn’t the case. He told me I needed to call Dr Shmootz immediately. I phoned Shmootz. I told him what had just happened. He ordered me to come directly to his office from physical therapy. I had no idea what was going on.
I arrived at Dr Shmootz’ office and he squeezed my swollen left leg. I cried out in pain again. More liquid seeped from the incision. He quickly left the exam room for about 10 minutes, then came back in and calmly told me that he was prepping the operating room because he needed to open the incision and irrigate my leg. I was again panic striken and terrified. Something was horribly wrong. Worse. I was alone. My mother had left me at Dr Shmootz office and was now stuck in traffic coming back to get me. My boyfriend was at work. I had told very few friends about this surgery. They were all sworn to secrecy. Of course at that moment, they were all at work as well. What could I do? I text my boyfriend. I called my mother, explaining in trembling words what was about to happen. She was again hysterical. Then, I maneuvered myself into the operating room.
Dr Shmootz was already in scrubs and had 2 nurses there to assist him. I was told to lay on my stomach. Dr Shmootz explained to me that he was going to be giving me a local anesthetic. 4 injections into the actual incision. Even though most of the area was already numb from the extensive nerve damage, he told me that these injections were going to be painful.
I had been living with excruciating pain and discomfort for almost 2 weeks now. I doubted this was going to be much worse than anything else I had experienced. Boy, was I wrong!
I gripped the sides of the operating table and prepared myself for the worst. Any pain that I had prepared myself for was nowhere near what I experienced. The syringe entered the already raw tissue like a razor blade tearing through my flesh. I howled in pain. Dr Shmootz, like so many cosmetic surgeon’s, didn’t exactly excel with his bedside manner. He bent down and said to me, “I told you this was going to be painful.”
I hated him! I hated him for doing whatever he had done to make this surgery go awry. But, most of all I hated me for ever putting myself in such an insane situation to begin with. The 2nd syringe plunged into my tissue. I was sobbing. I NEVER cry in front of strangers. This was unavoidable. I was drowning in the pain. The 3rd syringe entered my tissue and I cried out again. My head was getting hot and I was shaking violently from the surging pain. One of the nurses took my hand and was trying to console me. It wasn’t helping. Finally, the last syringe entered my wound and I literally started to become dizzy. The voice of the nurse who was trying to console me just melted into the background. I lost consciousness. Yes, I passed out. Maybe from the pain. Maybe from the stress of the situation. And maybe from the knowledge that this surgery had become a true medical nightmare. And this nightmare had become my reality. There was now no denying that there was something medically wrong with my left leg and I was in serious trouble….
TO BE CONTINUED….and next on a Interview with nick on why he quit sex work!
… make sure to check back on Rentmen.com for more new updates on the countless new guys in ” RENTMEN NEWEST ” in your City and around the Globe, on the worlds largest Male Escort Video Website