Lacking Gall

I haven't posted in years. I assure those of you who care, my life is still a sitcom. Lucky for you, a recent hospital stay and subsequent organ removal made me decide to fire up the old blog again.

New Year's day, I found myself sitting at my computer as usual. Normally, doing so doesn't cause me to break into a cold sweat, vomit, and have horrendous chest pain, so I figured my body was finally revolting after the enormous dinner I had on New Year's eve. My husband checked online and told me that all my symptoms were indicative of a heart attack and he was calling 911. Fucking great. I don't think I was wearing clean underwear and my PJ's had signs of the previous night's food orgy all over them. The next thing I knew I found myself hanging out in an ambulance with some wonderfully attentive EMS volunteers. Turned out that my heart was not the organ causing the uproar but my gall bladder. My liver enzymes were through the roof and I became convinced that I had cirrhosis from all the holiday imbibing I'd been doing. Luckily, a subsequent sonogram proved me wrong, because God knows I'm such a hypochondriac I needed scientific proof I wasn't riddled w/ liver cancer.

I ended up spending 5 funfilled days and 6 nights in the hospital. Trust me it was no Ritz Carlton, people. While there I learned several things. First off, the floor nurses were trained by Nurse Ratchet, and indeed hated doling out life's necessities like water and pain medication unless you begged for at least 45 minutes. Most, even enjoyed stabbing you w/ the morphine needle to ensure lasting bruises. The Nurses From the Bowels of Hell (my pet name for them) also loved to watch the old people with heart problems flip out when the numerous, incessant fire drills went off. There would never be an announcement that it was a drill, so the seniors heart monitors would be going off like crazy. No worries though! They couldn't be heard anyway over the thundering sound of the fire alarms.

Second, I'm claustrophobic. This revelation came to me while I was shoved into an enclosed MRI for 20 minutes by a creepy MRI technician who asked me several odd questions before he abruptly stuffed me in. He asked if I was married and if I would marry my husband again if I had the choice. I said, "In a heartbeat". Then he asked if I had to be married to myself, would I do it. I told him that I wasn't sure because I can be kind of difficult. Silence ensued as he pushed me into the tube. I lay there wishing I wasn't so God damn honest and had said, "Of course I would marry me. I'm fucking fabulous, extremely charitable, love small snot-ridden children and fluffy bunnies". Staring at the ceiling of the MRI I had visions of being buried alive or shoved through the blazing furnace of a crematorium while creepy guy laughed like the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. By the time he yanked me out I was hysterical. Not pretty hysterical, either. Ugly, bright red, sobbing and whimpering in a fetal position, begging for mommy, hysterical. I cried all the way back to my room, where much to my horror, I was greeted by Mike and 5 of my speechless friends. While I tried to stop hyperventilating, Mike and his best friend Kevin tried to lighten the mood. Kevin had stopped on his way to work so he was looking all spiffy in a suit and tie. He and Mike went for coffee in the hospital and took note of the sign in the elevator that says that all medical staff must refrain from discussing patient's conditions and respect their privacy. Of course, as they made their way up to my room in a crowded elevator, Kevin took great pleasure standing next to the sign, as he told Mike how poor, old Mrs. Robinson's heart finally gave out and he was sure another of his patients was dropping dead later that day. Turns out those assholes were actually getting their kicks while I was shoved in a cave by sadistic MRI dude. Super!

Finally, I learned the meaning of the word "Sundowner". The man across the hall from me had some sort of brain damage so he would scream all night long. Obviously, this ensures that other patients get absolutely no sleep whatsoever. Don't get me wrong, I felt bad for him but to a sick twitch like myself he was also a constant source of amusement. After all, nothing gets a room going like a sudden blood curdling scream! My friends would call and ask if that was a siren in the background. I would explain that it was just my best friend, "The Screamer", at which point they would burst into laughter not giving a shit that the poor schmuck was suffering, and even worse, so was I. My kids couldn't get enough of him. Being a compassionate and kind man, Mike told the kids not to laugh because he would be the same way one day. I assured him we would take great pleasure in ridiculing him as well, just to get our rocks off. Just another example of my stellar parenting skills.

Well, that fabulous chapter in my life is over. I no longer have a gall bladder and instead have chronic diarrhea which I've been assured will go away when it's good and ready. Then of course, there's my scarred psyche which no amount of shrink visits will cure, but heck, I was pretty fucked up anyway.