Too many chocolate bunnies
The desire to display life’s war wounds hasn’t gone away since I became an adult. A few weeks ago, on Easter, I may or may not have had one too many chocolate bunnies, mixed with the heads of a few Peeps, because I soon found myself suffering from chest pains. Gas was my first thought. Heart attack, was my second. But after moaning for what seemed like hours (probably minutes), I called Kaiser, described my post-Easter symptoms, and was told to get myself to the nearest hospital.
While the admitting clerk asked me questions, I moaned the answers, then was escorted into the ER, where they dressed me in a swatch of material with two arm holes in it, (leaving the back open for indecent exposure citations), hooked me up to an IV, and ran a bunch of tests. Not gas. Not a heart attack. I was experiencing an “acute gall bladder attack.” One of the tests revealed “billions and billions” of gall stones in my GB collection. How had that happened?
Didn’t matter, once they gave me drugs—I mean meds. (We took drugs in the sixties, we take meds in our sixties). The meds they gave me were way better than chocolate bunnies, and I drifted off to a land where there was no such thing as gall bladders. The surgery was scheduled for the next night. The doctor said he’d simply put me to sleep, poke four holes in my abdomen, and suck the annoying gall bladder out through a tube or something. I didn’t really listen. Just give me more meds and let me know when it’s over.
Surgery went well, according to everyone around me. My family came to visit—even the grandkids. I had my husband take my picture while I was in bed so I could send it to all my relatives and students and post it on Facebook.
After resting on the couch at home for a week, watching reruns of “House” and eating red Jell-o and showing off my scars to anyone who will look, including my grandkids and the man who mows our lawn, I’m back to normal. I’ve caught up on my emails, eaten all the mac and cheese in the house, tossed out my worn-out PJs, and finally washed my hair.
Friends have come out of the closet with their own gall bladder stories to make me feel better. Even my daughter-in-law had to have her gall bladder removed—six days after having a baby! So I can’t complain. Besides, there are no dietary restrictions after gall bladder surgery—except chocolate bunnies and Peep heads.
Still, I’m disappointed the doctor didn’t bother to suck out the extra fat I’ve been storing in my abdomen while he was in there getting my gall bladder. I would have gladly paid extra. Maybe when I have an appendicitis, I’ll remember to ask.