This is PART ONE of the Battle Analysis. New parts will be posted as written. I arrived bright and early, as requested. 5:30 in the morning at Methodist Hospital. The previous night's festivities were not too enjoyable. I had to swallow fistfuls of antibiotics, 12 tablets in all, in a period of about six hours. This was supposed to kill off any remaining bacteria in my gut, to help make the surgery safer. It nauseated me tremendously. The day before that, I drank a bottle of magnesium citrate. This tastes kind of like an extra-tangy Sprite. Unfortunately, it is designed to temporarily convert your digestive tract into a kind of water slide. Several days before that, I had to go to the hospital for a pre-op workup: blood tests, EKGs, chest x-rays, and sitting in a waiting room for about three hours. I guess they want to make sure you are really serious about wanting surgery. This is the best way to weed out all the jokers and misfits that probably sign up for surgery "just for fun." Anyway, after enduring all these hardships, the real fun was just around the corner. Things took on a kind of surreal tone, and I felt like I was walking through a dream as I marched down the hallway of the surgical department of Methodist Hospital. I couldn't believe I was actually doing it. I remembered clearly that morning, getting ready to leave for the hospital. I remembered taking a long, hot shower, and thinking to myself, "This is probably the last long, hot shower I will have for a long time." I got a nice, clean shave, knowing that I would not feel like shaving for a while. And so here I was. I checked in at the desk, they led me through to the preparation room. My family made themselves at home in the family waiting area. I am told that my brother pulled two tables together and created a makeshift bed, since he is not accustomed to being awake at 5:30. Jennifer, my fiance, went into the OR prep area with me. They had me take off all my clothes and put on some weird, tight stockings, then a hospital gown over that. I got to lie in a hospital stretcher in the ice-cold prep area for about an hour, getting good and nervous. My family was allowed to come back and visit, and we chatted about what a big event this was. There was actually a celebratory, excited, almost victorious feeling, as we talked about how sick I had been in the past, and how diseased my colon was, and how this would be the beginning of a new life for me. Indeed, the past few weeks had been hellish. Even a single bland meal of mashed potatoes or rice would cause horrible abdominal cramping. I had to get up several times in the middle of the night to dash to the bathroom. Went I went, there was blood in my stool. I had been that way since late March. It was now mid-August -- more than four months of nonstop illness, in which none of the traditional medications had any effect. In a while, a group of technicians, doctors and nurses descended on me. There was lots of activity. One nurse stuck electrodes all over my chest. One fitted me with a pulse-oxygen monitor on my finger. Then the anesthesiologist arrived. When you are having surgery, the anesthesiologist is your best friend. I mean this in a very true and literal sense. Their sole job function is to ensure that you do not feel any pain. I was amazed and impressed as this guy started the single most painless IV that has ever been started on my arm. I am usually very difficult to stick, and starting an IV on my arm invariably involves lots of unpleasant jabbing, digging and moving the needle under the skin. Turns out, he first used a small injection of local anesthetic, to numb the site. I couldn't even feel the IV. Immediately following the administration of the IV, within about 10 seconds, I began to feel very heavy and dizzy. I looked at the anesthesiologist and said, "Hey! There was something in that IV, wasn't there?" He smiled and nodded. It was a blast of Versed, which is a fantastic drug that they sometimes call "liquid courage." I definitely felt more comfortable, and could feel my nervousness (and outer portions of my consciousness) melting away. Then someone said, "it's time to start your epidural IV." I was nervous about this one. It's an IV that they place directly into your spinal column. It is supposed to help you with the pain -- it allows the doctor to inject morphine directly into your spinal column. I was a little squeamish about having anything inserted into my back, though. I still felt a little scared. So I asked (with slurred voice), "Can I get a little more versed?" "No problem," the anesthesiologist said. A few moments later I didn't care what they did to me. They scrubbed my back with some kind of antibacterial junk (probably iodine, but i couldn't see it) and again, the anesthesiologist injected a small amount of local anesthetic, this time into my back. It felt like a tiny pinprick, barely detectable. Then he said, "You should feel a little bit of pressure." I felt pressure, but also some pain in my back, as they inserted the needle. I remember gasping a little bit, but this was mostly from surprise. It felt like a muscle spasm in my back. It really wasn't so bad. After that, they put a large sheet of clear plastic over the epidural site, taped it down, and had me lie back. To be honest, by this point, the versed had royally messed me up. I have absolutely no perception of how long I was lying there. I don't remember if any of my family members were there. I very vaguely remember being wheeled to the OR. I remember my family coming out into the hallway, saying good luck. I don't remember if I said anything. I very faintly remember arriving at the OR, too. I was heavily sedated, and I was not scared or nervous at all. I remember thinking to myself, "man, am I glad I'm on all these drugs -- otherwise I would be really scared." I also remember seeing stirrups on the operating table. I remember thinking, "Oh wow, they must sometimes deliver babies in here too." Little did I know, the stirrups would be used on me as well. And the very last thing I remember: the anesthesiologist, now dressed in OR scrubs, approaching me with an evil-looking black mask which he began to place over my face. He said, "This is just oxygen." My response: a sarcastic "Yeah, right." The next thing I remember is waking up, I guess in the post-op care center. I remember a nurse looking into my face and asking me if I was in any pain. I actually had to think about that for a second. After a few moments, I decided that yes, I was experiencing some abdominal pain, it felt like someone had punched me in the belly a few times. She fiddled around with some knobs on the morphine dispenser. End of memory.