Back in early June, we spent the last night of our beach vacation at my parents' house. My mom made a yummy chicken fried steak. Later that night, I was sure she was trying to kill me with the horrendous bout of indigestion. Seriously, I can't remember being more miserable.
But, oh, that was nothing baby. Absolutely nothing.
A few weeks later, several people at work were battling a tummy bug. Okay, one manager was loosing to a bizarre strain of virus that can explain a famous early episode of South Park, but still others were having a few mild issues. One Sunday, I got up, was feeling fine, then BAM! I ended up yaking at work, but afterwards I felt much better.
Fast forward to Harry Potter night. I had gotten a big bucket of popcorn that turned out to be greasy without "butter" added and chock full of kernels. In the wee hours of the next morning: BINGO! Major indigestion that required me to wake up DH and send him to CVS for Pepto Max. Yeah. BAD! I even had to have my mom take Hoot to school and spent the morning in bed.
But, it all paled in comparison to the last Sunday in July. Paled.
I was having a great day, when out of the blue I was smacked down. In under 10 minutes, I went from fine and dandy to moaning and writhing. After a puke, I thought it would all be well, but it didn't help. I FLED work a little after 2.
After much Pepto, GasX, and everything else I could think of, I was beginning to get really worried. I resolved to call the doctor in the morning and tried to just go to sleep. At eleven that night, I called the nurseline service provided by my insurance company. After ten minutes of going through my symptoms and day, she suggested I get myself to the emergency room as soon as possible.
I left the boys in bed and took myself. Life was much better with some nausea medication mixed into a morphine drip. Yep. I hurt that bad. At two a.m., the sonogram tech came and got me. I didn't want to go. I just wanted the morphine/anti-nausea cocktail in the iv bag. But, I took a little ride.
Four days later, a rather talented surgeon ripped my gall bladder out of my belly button.
The surgery wasn't bad at all. In by 10, home by 2. A few staples, a big batch of pills, and yippee! By Monday, I was thinking I'd be back at work on Friday. I was on the mend. Except, it was really hot, and I was a tad irritated around my incisions. I had been warned about developing a sensitivity to the adhesive in bandages. I figured that was it combined with the super heat.
By Thursday morning, if I hadn't had an appointment with the surgeon for my follow up and staple removal, I would've called and begged for one.
Turns out I am totally incompatable with surgical stainless steel. *Good thing I've never had anything, um, delicate pierced!*
I finally made it back to work last week, but haven't had a chance to catch my breath since then. But, life is so much better. Who needs a gall bladder anyway?
Current slavish devotion to a genre:
Scandinavian Crime Fiction. How have I lived without you? Seriously, I can't imagine how sad it would've been if I had never read Stieg Larsson. I've just finished The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson. It is the second in the trilogy, but can be read alone. When I was out sick, I dreamed of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo several times. It was what I was shelving during my surgery. I was able to put my hands on Fire first. I am saving Dragon Tattoo for vacation in September. Maybe. I don't know that I will be able to wait. I just started a Henning Mankell mystery today. Which reminds me, I should get to book, um, I mean bed.
