It was like a knife twisting in my upper stomach last Tuesday morning. Maybe it was that bowl of lentil soup followed by half a Monster drink I had for lunch the day before. Maybe this was the result of brutal anxiety. Waves of nausea came crashing in while gnawing pain relentlessly sliced my insides to shreds. It felt like a death grip on my intestines. I knew I’d have to call out from work — and for a split second I was excited, but then I remembered the agony! Writhing around in bed while my husband got ready for work, I knew a horrible day lay ahead.
There I was vomiting, vomiting, thinking of Excel spreadsheets, mortgage payments, shooting stomach pain, vomiting, that Eddie Money Geico commercial, stabbing pain, repeat. I began making deals with god, “I’ll be a nicer person if you take this pain away?” The pain wasn’t going anywhere so I had Bill drive me to the emergency room. After a wonderful three-hour wait and a battery of tests, a CT scan revealed that my appendix was double the normal size and it had to come out. Come out?! A part of my digestive system had to be surgically removed and I had five seconds to give consent. They told me that if I didn’t have my appendix removed, it could burst, in which I immediately recalled this scene from The Simpsons:
I agreed to have it removed and was quickly wheeled up to the operating room. My next memory is waking up in brutal pain and requesting, DEMANDING pain killers. I was wheeled into my own recovery room where I would spend another 14 hours. If I released gas, they would release me. At least I had a copy of Enter Night: A Biography of Metallica with me. Great book. Lars is such an arrogant, little weasel… oh wait, I promised I would be nice.
