Toodle-oo, Gallbladder

Back on February 14 when I posted about the second part of our vacation, I said this about our last day at sea:

Saturday was another At Sea day , and it brought its own adventures. Perhaps another day for that story.

Well, today is that day.

At lunch that day, I started to feel badly. I went to lie down. A couple hours later, I was up with horrible pain in my upper back. For the next several hours, I was either throwing up, hoping to throw up, or constantly trying to move to find a position in which I wouldn't feel like I was going to die from pain. We eventually ended up visiting our lovely ship doctor, and he gave me an anti-nauseau injection, a short run of antibiotics, and instructions to take a pain killer in forty minutes.

I love Percoset. It only took one dose, and I was able to go to sleep.

The next day we spent thirteen or fourteen hours in a minivan driving home. I ate nothing but Saltines for fear of further angering whatever was angry from the day before.

So, I went to see my regular doctor on Monday after we returned, and he said it was either my gallbladder or my stomach. That Thursday I went for an abdominal ultrasound, and it was my gallbladder. I should note that Andrew thought it was my gallbladder even as I was in the throes of agony. Smart guy, that Andrew. I should also note that he was a trooper and took very good care of me. Nice guy, that Andrew. I shall keep him.

I had said if it was my stomach I was blaming my dad and if it was my gallbladder I was blaming my mom. One of my sisters, who also has gallbladder problems and should have surgery, said so many of us have problems that we should get Have and Have Not t-shirts to wear at our family reunion.

This week, she sent me this:

I shall wear it home today from surgery. It should be noted that I'm wearing a t-shirt that reads, "Delicate Flower" to surgery. I feel better if the peeps at the hospital know what they're dealing with.

Em brought me goodies to work yesterday: a greeting card of monks riding a roller coaster, pencils, a whirly-fan-thingie, some silly putty, and, the piece de resistance:


Em says his name is Bladimir Lenin, and he's my replacement gallbladder. If I get scared, I am to hold him high and shout, "That's Bolshevik!" I'm actually leaving him at home because I'm afraid I'll do just that when I'm high on drugs. One must protect against oneself.

Bladimir is part-Irish. I can tell by his accent. He's hand-sewn and really, really fabulous.

As an added bit of fabulosity, he also came with a pocket containing a Half-Priced Books gift card. Nice play, Bladimir.

Send positive energy my way. Right now I'm all right except for the expected anxiety and acid reflux strong enough to burn holes in upholstery. Since I can't eat or drink, I'm stuck with it. Luckily, in a few hours they'll knock me out and I won't have to feel the fire in my esophagus.

Half full, people. The glass is half full.

See you on the flip side. I'll be the one in the cool t-shirt with the stuffed gallbladder.