When I imagined having a pregnant wife, I had certain expectations about how it would play out, probably built from all the movies I’m constantly watching instead of living in reality.
I imagined us binge eating shitty food for nine months, for example. For some reason, I figured we’d eat a lot of pickles. Like straight from the jar, like we were trying to win some sort of pickle-eating championship or some shit.
I also imagined myself playing the role of a super supportive husband who was waiting on his pregnant wife hand and foot (and belly) while she focused on being healthy, on growing our baby boy to be so goddamn strong he’d give Superman a run for his money. I’d do all the errands, cook for her, clean our apartment, give her foot rubs and back massages, run her to appointments, serve her food on the couch, refill her water glass, set up all the baby’s accessories, put on her socks when her belly got too big, take care of our bossy dog, Maple.
You name it, I’d be on top of it. I’d basically turn into Danny Doubtfire, my version of Mrs. Doubtfire. Hell, maybe I’d even do the voice.
“At your service, Dear,” I’d say as I fixed Meredith a gourmet meal that would give any five-star restaurant a run for its money. I’d be cracking jokes while dancing with the vacuum and just be a total delight to be around, making Meredith belly-laugh so hard that she’d tell me to stop because her gesticulations were shaking the baby. Fuck, I’d probably even teach us some life lessons like the real Mrs. Doubtfire, deepening our understanding of humanity, our existence, and what it means to be a family.
But back in reality, I discovered that my pregnancy expectations weren’t exactly being met. First off, Meredith doesn’t really like pickles. Don’t think she’s even eaten one all pregnancy, despite me packing the fridge with jars of them as a subtle hint for us to start our binge eating.
And as for the supportiveness, I was doing pretty good for a little bit. I wasn’t cooking or cleaning much more than my normal amount (close to nothing), but I was doing all the small things around the house that required bending: loading and unloading the dishwasher, taking out the trash, fetching her and I ice cream sandwiches from the freezer or anything she wanted from the fridge (never pickles), bringing in the mail, and playing “Ball Mania!” with Maple.
Call it Danny Doubtfire Lite.
[Side Note: For those wondering what the fuck “Ball Mania!” is, it’s what we call the one activity our abnormally lazy dog enjoys besides eating. It involves me yelling “Ballllllllllll Mania!” so loud that Meredith reminds me that we have neighbors, and then tossing five-to-ten plastic balls at a time for Maple to chase around our condo’s hardwood floors like an adorable maniac.]
So things were going pretty well. I wasn’t breaking supportiveness world records or anything. But I was close.
Then my Danny Doubtfire Lite ways hit a little bit of a snag.
The roadblock came in the form of gallstones, which are small, hard crystalline masses formed in the gallbladder from bile pigments, cholesterol, and calcium salts. Gallstones develop when you aren’t good at not eating like shit. And I had been eating like a drunk college student most of my life, very rarely considering the healthy option over the more delicious one, a diet consisting of gas station snacks and items you could find on most bar food menus.
These disgusting little gallstones can cause attacks when they get stuck in the bile duct connecting to the liver, prompting the poor gallbladder to start to expand like a balloon, thus creating a sort of pinching/stabbing sensation in your abdomen.
“It’s probably from all the pretzels and gummy bears you eat,” said a friend.
“Ha. No way,” I said while jamming an “extra salt” pretzel into my mouth and chasing it down with a gummy bear, then feeling a pinch in my side.
I started having a few gallbladder attacks over the summer of 2020, before Meredith was even pregnant, sending me to my general doctor. We’ll call her Dr. R. After getting an ultrasound like I was the pregnant one and confirming the gallstones, Dr. R sent me to a surgeon. The surgeon—we’ll call him Dr. G—recommended surgery. I mean, of course he did. After all, he’s a surgery salesperson, not much different than a car salesman trying to sell you a new car.
“You can either have a laparoscopic surgery to remove your gallbladder, or you can try to eat healthier,” Dr. G said.
“Wow, that sounds awful,” I said. “I’ll have the surgery.”
I mean, what was I gonna do? Eat fucking salads and salmon the rest of my life when burgers and pizza still existed? Give me a break.
Dr. G explained that the surgery was no big deal, a sort of ho-hum type of thing that ranked very low on the list of serious procedures. Laparoscopic surgery meant that he would make four small incisions instead of one big one—one in my belly button, one just below my rib cage, then two on my right abdomen. This minimally invasive technique supposedly reduced the scarring and recovery time, making it an outpatient surgery, though I would still have to go under anesthesia.
“You could get it on a Friday and be back working on Monday,” he told me like it was a root canal or wart removal. “It’s one of the most common surgeries we do,” he added.
My biggest concern initially was how quickly I could be back jogging post-surgery, as I use running as my end-of-the-day de-stressor, helping me to process all the wonderful things I’ve written over the day—a time to mentally edit my work, not that any of my work needs any editing because it’s perfect the first time. I asked Dr. G how long it would be before I could jog.
“Probably about a week,” he said. “Most people are completely back to normal in two weeks. You just can’t lift anything over ten pounds post-surgery, which might get you out of some chores,” joked Dr. G.
“I thought you were a surgeon, not a terrible comedian,” I wanted to say.
“Haha. Great! Very funny. I hate chores,” I really said.
Surgery sounded like a real piece of cake, a vacation even. I mean, I didn’t drink anymore, so being put under and then being prescribed some pain pills sounded sort of nice and relaxing. It’s okay to get fucked up as long as it’s under the supervision of a doctor, right?
The only person cautioning me about the level of seriousness of the surgery was my mom. My mom has had cancer on and off for almost 30 years, recently surpassing the 135-chemo mark like a fucking badass. She’s been admitted to the hospital for just about everything. In fact, when they first diagnosed her with cancer a billion years ago, they also discovered that she needed to have her gallbladder removed. I asked her about the surgery. She thought I should get it, but just adjust my recovery time expectations.
“It’s not minor surgery. You’re having a fucking organ removed,” she said.
“But he said I’d be back working in two days, jogging in a week,” I said.
“These dumbass doctors don’t know shit. They’ve never had the surgery they’re performing. I have,” said my mom. “It’ll take you at least six weeks to feel a little better, and you probably won’t ever feel the same again.”
Jesus. That sounded drastic. But my mom can be over-dramatic, so I just chalked her take on the surgery up to being just that. I mean, what does she really know, you know?
“I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” I said.
“Okay, I warned you,” said my mom.
So I proceeded.
My biggest concern health-wise was that we were in the middle of a global pandemic, so I wasn’t crazy about spending a ton of extra time in a hospital. I asked about delaying it until Covid calmed the fuck down a touch. Dr. G said that that was fine, that I could avoid fatty foods for a bit and “kick the can down the road for a few months,” but that I’d most likely need it out sooner rather than later. “These issues don’t fix themselves,” said the surgery salesman, not wanting to see a potential customer get away from him.
So that’s what I did. I actually ate healthily, eliminating cheese and fatty foods from my diet. No pizza or burgers or candy or ice cream sandwiches. I even weaned myself off of pretzels like those crunchy delights were hits of heroin or some shit. I ate a boatload of fish and kept telling Meredith that, “I’m on a little bit of a fish kick,” until I nearly drove her crazy. I felt better than I had in years. “Maybe I should always eat healthily,” I said to myself, but then quickly remembered how delicious carne asada burritos are.
I had the surgery scheduled for October, but was feeling good and work was busy. Even if the surgery was no biggie, I still didn’t want to be laid up when I was on deadline. So I kicked the can. Then, I was supposed to have it in early December, but Meredith and I decided to fuck off to Turks and Caicos. So I kicked the can again.
I thought about just continuing to kick the can down the road forever, just rolling the dice, and hoping that my gallbladder didn’t pop like a water balloon full of bile.
But then Meredith became pregnant. And as her pregnancy progressed, I deduced that I should get the surgery done so that I could actually be helpful when she was super pregnant and couldn’t lift or bend or stand for long periods of time. And I certainly didn’t want to do the surgery after the baby arrived. It seems like a major part of being a parent involves lifting shit and carrying things around, a camel in human form. I wanted to be as healthy as possible so I could be a good husband and father. I know, I’m a fucking saint.
I thus scheduled the surgery for the start of the year, January 4th. Early January is always a slow time for work because all these Hollywood assholes like me take an extra week or so of vacation, just sort of roll our month-long winter break into an even longer one. So I figured squeezing the surgery in then wouldn’t make me miss any critical work time, and then I could also get back to being Danny Doubtfire Lite before Meredith was more pregnant.
The surgery was at UCLA Medical in Santa Monica. I had to arrive at some ungodly hour that instantly made me rethink getting it.
Before the start of the surgery, I went out of my way to tell all the doctors and nurses that I was an expecting father. We had just found out that we were having a boy, so I shared that news with everyone, hoping that that little tidbit would ensure that they’d take extra good care of me. They certainly wouldn’t accidentally kill an expecting father, would they?
“Gonna be a father. Having a baby boy. So don’t kill me,” I joked to Dr. G as the anesthesiologist started to put me under.
“That’s exciting. I won’t,” said Dr. G as he faded from my consciousness.
I woke up a couple of hours later, groggy and with a few fresh holes in my previously perfect body, down one organ. Everything had gone well. And bonus, the drugs were really strong. I was a happy drunk when I used to drink, so it made sense that I was also super happy while all drugged up. I was telling all the nurses and doctors about how much I loved my wife, how excited I was to meet my son. I also started excessively complimenting them, telling them how amazing they were at their jobs, and how thankful I was that they did such great work.
“It’s just so nice to meet someone so good at their job. I can’t thank you enough,” I remember my drugged-up ass telling one nurse.
Since it was an outpatient surgery, I had to have Meredith pick me up. I was wheeled out to the curb by a nurse, who I showered with “thank yous” and compliments about how great she was at her job, still feeling like the painkillers were making me the happiest, politest person on planet earth.
“I love you,” I said to Meredith.
“I love you, too,” she said.
Meredith got me home, guided me into bed. She had picked up all my favorite pretzels, some crackers, Coke, and even had a “Feel Better Soon” balloon floating next to our bed.
“Thank you so much. I love you and think you’re amazing at your job,” I said, not just reserving the compliments for the nurses and doctors.
“Those drugs must be strong,” she joked.
“They are. I love drugs so much. They’re so good at their jobs,” I said.
Over the next few days, as all the painkillers slowly began wearing off, it started to become apparent that this wasn’t as minor of a surgery as Dr. G had so casually advertised it to be. I mean, he had acted as if I’d practically be skipping home from the hospital, like I’d just sleep it off over the weekend like a bad hangover and be back to slamming extra-cheesy pizza with the boyz in no time.
But I was in pain, feeling like I couldn’t really move around, my body adjusting to the new reality of not having a gallbladder. Now, they say a gallbladder isn’t a necessary organ, that you can live without it just fine. But that doesn’t mean that your body isn’t going to be like, “What the fuck?” when you remove it. There’s an adjustment period, and I was feeling all the pain of that.
I was way sorer than I thought I’d be. A lot of motion goes through your torso and abdomen, so just about any movement caused pain. Sure I was able to grab my laptop and do a little editing of the screenplay I was working on while in bed, but I wasn’t fully back working. I could walk, but did so with such stiffness that I looked like fat Frankenstein.
“How you feeling today?” asked Meredith.
“I feel like I had an organ removed,” I told her.
“Well, you did,” said sweet Meredith. “Just give it some time.”
But even after a couple of weeks, I still felt pretty shitty. I mean, I was improving, slowly getting back some of the abilities I had lost. But there was no way I was going to be jogging under the Santa Monica sun anytime soon.
I confided in my mom that I didn’t expect it to be this bad, for my recovery to take so long.
“I fucking told you. At what point in your life are you finally going to listen to your mother?” my mom said.
“I mean, probably never,” I said, still acting like a spoiled dick.
“Well, feel better, you little shit,” she said.
When you’re in recovery mode, it’s hard not to feel terrible physically, but it was the mental side of things that was affecting me the most. I felt horrible because while I lay around with a stomach covered in bandages, Meredith was on her own. I wasn’t able to do any of the things I had imagined doing as a supportive husband. I couldn’t clean, or cook dinner, or even do “Ballllllllllllll Mania!” with Maple, who kept looking at me like, “What in the absolute hell is going on here? Toss my fucking balls you lazy fuck.”
In fact, Meredith and my roles were completely reversed. Instead of me being the one doting over her—making sure she was okay, ensuring she was comfortable, and not over-exerting herself—she was the one doing all those things for me. Here she was entering her second trimester, and she had to tend to her mostly bed-ridden, invalid husband, my belly the main concern, not hers. She cooked for me, did the dishes, helped me into and out of bed. Fuck, she even had to help me into my pants and put on my socks.
So much for Danny Doubtfire Lite.
“That fucking Dr. G,” I said, cursing his name as I tried putting my socks on before Meredith came in to save the day. “Oh, you’ll be fine in a week. Dancing around the streets of Santa Monica, climbing palm trees, playing pickup basketball on the beach,” I said in a mocking voice meant to be Dr. G.
The surgery and my recovery undoubtedly put extra strain on Meredith, but I didn’t know what to do, except try to recover as fast as I could. So between bouts of cursing Dr. G’s name—feeling like I had been duped like someone who bought a lemon from a sleazy car salesperson—I tried to get stronger, to rest, to get back healthy so I could fulfill my promise of being everything I wanted to be for Meredith and our baby boy.
Cue the Rocky montage. But instead of air-punching and doing one-armed pushups and running the streets of Philadelphia, I was doing small, pathetic things, like finally getting my socks on all by myself like a big boy, helping with a few dishes, walking around the block, showering myself, changing out of my sweatpants and into jeans, and working at my desk instead of in bed.
Hell, I even eventually started doing “Balllllllllllll Mania!” for Maple, though I still couldn’t bend over, so I had to pick up and toss the balls with my feet, unable to recreate the same balls-to-the-walls excitement that made her go ape-shit. “This is lame,” Maple seemed to say with her expressive, fluffy face.
It wasn’t until the six-week mark that I started to feel close to 85 percent or so, just like my mom had suggested. I really should start listening to her. I went on my first light jog around that time, relieved to be back on the streets of Santa Monica, letting that ocean breeze calm me down as I digested my day. Having the time to think and reflect is an absolute privilege, one of my favorite things, besides gummy bears.
But the best part was that I could finally be more helpful to Meredith. I could go back to supporting her and her pregnancy, instead of her supporting me and my tummy troubles, all created by my desire to eat like shit. I could cook, clean, lift things over ten pounds, run errands, drive her to appointments, refill her water glass, fetch us both ice cream sandwiches, etc.
“Help is on the way, dear!” I told Meredith in my Doubtfire voice when she asked me to get her some chocolate milk. “Danny Doubtfire is back,” I added, smiling, happy that I was inching closer to normalcy, my expectations of how the pregnancy would play out finally getting back on track.
Now I just needed to get Meredith to start eating pickles.
Yes.....Listen to your Mother!!!!!!!