I was working the night shift at the library when the pain became too intense and persistent to ignore. My colleague insisted I go see a doctor. It’s a good thing she did, because my appendix was just about ready to burst.
Twelve hours, one CT scan and several blood tests later, I was wheeled into an operating room full of mounted HTDVs and machines that go “ping.” I was knocked out with an intravenous drug before the anaesthesiologist put a tube down my throat. (I can still feel the soreness when I swallow.) Fiber-optic tubes were poked through my belly button and carbon dioxide was used to pump up my already-swollen abdomen, the better to let the doctors view my innards with a teeny-tiny camera. Using two more incisions, the surgeon cut the appendix loose and slipped it right out of me.
All very impressive and fascinating, but I’m glad they didn’t record the procedure. Oof.
I spent the next 36 hours in one of those bum-exposing hospital gowns. (There must be a reason we’re still using those, right?) All the hospital personnel were fantastically helpful and caring — which I appreciated, since my loved ones live far away, and I had to go through this solo.
Now I’m recovering at my apartment, waiting for the whomped-in-the-gut-with-a-shovel feeling to fade away. I’m moving with all the grace and style of a man twice my age. But I’m still moving!