But that’s not the end of the story. Here’s what happened.

Been ramping up for a detailed post regarding last month’s organ extraction, and this is it. I warn you, it is both long and has details about medical procedures. I would recommend emptying your bladder before you begin and perhaps forgoing the snack.  (Edit, this is actually going to  have to be in parts, because it is so damn long. This is part one. Next will be part two, as I am kind of traditional in regard to sequences.)

So anyway, yeah I had my gallbladder out. Bad gallbladders run in families, from what I hear, and we grow them very faulty in mine. My mom, three aunts, one uncle and my grandmother all had them out, and I had one previous (hospitalized) episode with mine back when I was in college, so when the pain came back I was pretty sure I knew what it was. It’s not the kind of pain you forget, up high under your ribs and radiating downward—kinda like an alien trying to fight its way through your body. It shoots through to your back, and your right shoulder blade too. You can’t move or stretch or lay differently to walk it away. You can’t do anything but lay there and breathe very shallowly and wish you’d pass out. But I’ve never really been a fan of doctors, so when that particular pain started a few weeks ago, I thought I could tough it out. I figured I was passing gallstones, from the location and the way that the pain came, in waves over the course of the day. It was excruciating, but at the same time, not sufficient to make me do anything about it, as I figured that if I would go to the ER they would run tests which would be inconclusive and I would have wasted a whole day and $75 just to have indifferent nurses poking and/or looking at me while I was in agony. I knew I could be in agony privately at home and save myself some cash—so when I wasn’t in pain that day I was sleeping, and the next morning when the pain wasn’t gone I took a painkiller and slept all day that day as well. And then I was fine. Fine, I tell you. That fine lasted about a week. The next Tuesday night it started all over again. At that point I determined to go to the doctor, as I had developed some other complications, namely that my pee had turned dark orange and I had broken out in hives. Pain, OK I can take it. Hives and orange pee had me a tad concerned. My regular doctor was out of town, so I saw an alternate doctor who was very nice. She agreed it was likely my gall bladder, and wanted blood work. (it was awful, the dipshit lady punctured a vein in my hand and then there was this pool of blood that was rolling around my knuckles all afternoon. Well, admittedly that was cool, but the part where she pierced my vein hurt.) She also wanted for me to have an ultrasound. I didn’t understand why I would need blood work really, if it was just my gallbladder what does that have to do with my blood? Oh so naive. We will get to that later.

I went for an ultrasound. I have had my fair share of ultrasounds, and of all possible medical testing, they are the very nicest. They’re almost spa-like and very relaxing (when you’re not in pain.) Honestly, having this latest one has convinced me that I could really see the appeal behind medical fetishism. You go to a place, they tell you to take off your clothes and go lay in a dimly lit, warm room. Someone comes in and assures you that they’re going to make you feel better, if you just lie back and let them spread warm gel on you and let them rub your body with a special device. It might hurt just for a moment, but there’s an implied promise that everything will be fine if you just lay back and relax. It was the best I’d felt all day.

Turns out that everything was not fine, of course—the lady with the warm gel and the special device told me “Oh you’ve definitely got gall bladder trouble alright.” And then she sent the results to the pinch-hitting doctor, who said she wanted me to see a surgeon the next day. But by the late afternoon I was starting to feel better, so I went home and rested, then proceeded to craft night, where I was sure hot chocolate and laughter would make me OK, and everything would be Fine Just Fine and my body would heal itself. But it was not. As I was there I felt the strange cramping pain start again, and knew I had to get out of there. Instead of going straight home I drove to the home of a very kind and generous friend who I knew had some narcotics on hand, and I do believe those things saved my sanity that night, because the pain was quite excruciating and I was covered in hives and itching everywhere. (By the way, I googled “hives and gallbladder” while this was happening and I did not find any conclusive results or documented connection between the two. In case someone has found their way here by googling the same things, YES you can hives as a result of a gall bladder problem. more specifically as a result of choledocholithiasis, the hives are the body’s reaction to the excess bilirubin and other liver toxins in your blood. It’s serious. Go to the doctor.)

Finally I fell asleep and the next morning at 11:00 a.m. I went to see the surgeon, having the blood work from the previous day sent to his office from the first doctor’s office. I won’t even trifle with your patience by explaining how tedious and aggravating it was to get that done, having blood work results sent from one floor of a building to an office one floor up, I will only say that I was tired and still in pain and I was in tears more than once that morning. I will also admit that I knew I had a serious issue going on and on the off chance I would not be coming back to my house in the near future I took care to tidy up my house, throw out perishables, take out the trash and wear nice underwear. I also brought a book with me.

My surgeon was tall and lanky, and looked like a perfect cross between James Frain and William H. Macy.

He listened to what I had to say, and then wanted to examine me. As I got up on the table he commented on my necklace, a cameo of a creepy little girl. “That’s interesting.” he said. “What is it?”

“A creepy little girl.” I said, as I am usually pretty straightforward when a doctor asks me a question.

“Huh, a creepy little girl. And I see you’re wearing a black sweater. Are you a goth?”

“Not really.” I replied, beginning to feel as if I maybe hadn’t woken up properly after all, and was having a Vicodin dream.

“Ah, but you’re also wearing sunglasses on your head. Those sunglasses are not goth.”

“No, I don’t suppose they are.”

“Your socks are striped though. Now you’re starting to give me more of a Tim Burton vibe.”

“Really?”

“Did you know that new Alice in Wonderland movie is coming out?”

“I did.”

“I bet you’re a big fan of his.”

“Ummm, yeah, OK?” I don’t know if I am all that big a Tim Burton fan, but was it worth getting into it with this guy, and possibly offending him? No it was not.

“OK, let’s see your stomach here.”

It was a surreal kind of conversation. Then he poked my belly for awhile and looked at the results of my blood work and heard about the orange pee, he went to check his schedule and then came back to explain to me that I was going to go next door and check myself in to the hospital, as I would be having surgery that afternoon. “Do I have time to go take my dogs to my parent’s house?” I asked. “No. You’re going right now.” he replied. And so I pretty much stopped processing anything other than what he told me, and got on the phone. I couldn’t think “Oh, I am going to have surgery.” I just needed to be hyper-efficient and get my business sorted out, and let someone else worry about the surgery. I called my mom and told her what was going on. That I needed her to go get the dogs, that I needed her to get their food and medicine. How to corral them in the house and what kennel to take for transporting them in the car. Which hospital I was going to, and what I would like her to bring me from my house (Clean underwear for when I checked out of the hospital the next day. I presumed I could wear my same rocking goth outfit, but I wanted clean underwear, dammit.) And then I walked out of the doctors office, got in my car and drove out of his parking lot. That’s when I realized I had neglected to ask which of the buildings in the complex was the actual place you go to check in for surgery. There were lots of buildings. I had to call information, then call the hospital, then ask them for directions from their own parking lot. It was at this point that I started to lose my shit, in case you can’t tell.

I parked valet because I couldn’t deal with finding a place to leave my car. I found the check-in desk and announced I was here to check myself in for surgery. “Are you here by yourself?” the check-in lady asked, and I replied in the affirmative. They sent me to a waiting room which (naturally) had no cell-phone reception. I told them I would be in the hallway making calls and called work to let them know what was up and arrange for someone to attend an event I had promised to go to the next day. By the time I had made the call they were ready for me, and I had to blurt out a few instructions and then go. I went to the processing lady. “Are you here by yourself?” she asked me. I replied in the affirmative, starting to resent being asked. She took my vital information, and then my surgeon popped his head into the office to hurry her along. “Is anyone here with you?” He asked me, and I wondered if he thought I had Helena Bonham Carter stashed in my giant handbag. How would there be anyone with me?

They finished processing me and then took me down the hall to a room, where they told me to take all my clothes off, put them in a bag put on a horrible hospital robe with a discomfiting number of snaps in strange places, and then pee in a cup. I was also told to put footies on my feet and a cap over my hair. I did all those things, because I can follow simple directions. Someone came in and took the pee, then came back and asked me if I was alone. I began to feel like the saddest bastard in the world. “I am alone.” I replied, “This happened quite suddenly, my parents are on their way.” Now I was defensive. Much furtive whispering ensued, wondering what to do with my things while I was in surgery. Lots of people began to ask me if I was pregnant and what I had eaten that day. They asked me if I knew what was happening, I replied that I did. (I was sitting braless in a room with a rotating parade of strangers, and a man I only met an hour before was going to have me sedated and cut out one of my organs.) Someone came and inserted an IV in my hand. More people asked me if I was pregnant and what I had eaten. A new woman came in and asked me if I was alone. Someone bar-coded me, someone bar-coded my belongings, as they were going to be removed to the security office as I was there *gasp* ALONE *ungasp.*

Someone came in and told me I was not pregnant (pee test) and asked if I had eaten anything that day. Then my parents arrived. My mom came into the room and immediately started telling the nurse about her gall bladder surgery, and how after it she thought she was having a heart attack and had to spend the night in the ICU. I crossed my arms over my unrestricted bosoms and wished I was already unconscious. They gave me something to relax me, then they wheeled me away to a room where they made me get on another bed, by then I had only a hazy idea of what was going on. Next thing I knew I was waking up to someone yanking a tube out of my throat, and I thought I was going to barf. The surgeon came over. “I think you’re going to need more surgery.” he said, which was not what I had expected to hear at that point. I tried to talk. I coughed instead. He said some more stuff, my throat hurt me and I did not pay attention. I wished he would fuck off. They wheeled me to a room. It was probably 4:30 or so. My mom was there with my clothes and my purse. I wanted my bra back, but I couldn’t move and had all this shit attached to me and I didn’t think I could get up or put it on. My throat hurt. “They think you need more surgery.” my mom said. “uh huh” I said. “Well as long as you’re settled,” my mom said. “We’re going to go ahead and get going, we need to take care of the dogs.” What? Huh? They were leaving me? My throat hurt.

“I am not going to leave your purse or clothes here, I am going to take them home. What if they get stolen?” my mom said. I snatched at my bag, not thinking enough to argue with her, but knowing damn well she wasn’t leaving me alone there without my phone. I plucked my MyTouch, my iPod and a tube of Burt’s Bees lip balm from my bag, and sadly handed it over to her. “Take care, and we will see you tomorrow.” she said. And then they were gone.

Shortly after they left, the woman on the other side of the curtain, who had three female visitors (I think they were her daughters) began vomiting. Copiously. Retching and gagging and coughing, I had rarely heard anything so horrible. Apparently her morphine drip did not agree with her. It went on for a long time. A nurse came in and strapped giant Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man plastic cuffs on my calves, and attached those to the bed. They began inflating and deflating at regular intervals to keep me from getting a blood clot. They made my legs sweaty. I was informed I couldn’t go the bathroom without help, and told I had to pee in a “hat” so the nurses could have a look at it. I got a giant glass of ice water. It was never going to be enough to make my throat stop hurting. I got help to pee. My pee was really a weird color now. The surgeon came back, he explained that I had gall stones stuck in my common bile duct (the aforementioned choledocholithiasis) and my liver was not draining. (After the surgery they attempt to push dye through the duct to make sure it’s clear. He said he pushed the dye in, but none came out, so it was pretty much totally blocked.) They were going to wait and see if the stones cleared overnight, but if they did not I would need more surgery the next day. He went away.

Pukey lady kept puking. I spilled my giant glass of ice water on the floor, and all three of pukey lady’s daughters came over to help clean it up. I thought maybe the nurse should do that, and eventually she came. I peed again. My pee was now the color of strong tea. I shared a TV with pukey lady. “Unbreakable” was on. I laid there and looked at my phone, wanting to not be all alone in the horrible place, with no bra and a sore throat and more surgery on the way. I didn’t want weird sweaty things strapped to my legs, I wanted that lady to stop throwing up, and I wanted her daughters to stop talking, especially to me. I watched “Unbreakable” and I also watched the battery in my phone start to drain, and with it any connection I had to the world outside this hateful room. The nurses switched shifts. I turned my phone off to conserve the battery and I snuck to the bathroom on my own. I got caught out and got in trouble. I got scolded for wanting to wash my hands with soap and water instead of the antibacterial goop from the dispenser, but whatever, I know soap and water is better. They forgot to turn my leg cuffs back on, now they were just laying there all sweaty and uninflated. I could not bend or turn or move. I lined my three possessions in the world up on the cart next to me. iPod, MyTouch, lip balm. The sum total of who I was when I was not here. I put my iPod on and used a rainstorm white noise track to drown out pukey. I dozed off.

Half an hour later I awoke, and at approximately half-hour intervals all night I was constantly woken. Pukey, the TV she wanted on at 2:30 a.m., her IV beeping, my IV beeping, the nurse coming in and not understanding about the indoor, middle-of-the-night voice. I snuck to pee again. Now my pee was cola colored. My throat still hurt. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked insane. No wonder no one gives you any respect in the hospital, you look deranged and you have no bra. I went back to bed, I fell asleep, pukey woke me up to ask my name. The nurse came in to check if I needed to pee and then she made me breathe into a contraption that made me feel like I had pneumonia. (Apparently the anesthesia pushes fluids in your lungs and you have to cough them back out, but you don’t want to cough because there are holes in your stomach.) They took away my water, as I wasn’t allowed any food or liquids anymore. Someone came in to draw my blood at 6 a.m. and I told him that I was not above punching a phlebotomist if he fucked it up and hurt me. I don’t think he liked it. I didn’t care. My phone was almost dead. The results of that bloodwork came in, and I was in worse shape than I was before. Definitely more surgery.

My throat hurt.

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