We’ve had our own personal tennis match going on at the house lately, and it goes something like this: I get sick, then gradually serve it to Mr. P² or my mom, who then return it back to me, rinse and repeat. I’m fairly certain you can probably watch the germs jump between us, which I guess is the price you pay when living in close quarters during flu season.
However, today’s post is about the sick you never see coming: emergency surgery. I never thought I’d experience those two little words, but one Thursday in March 2017, I got a heaping dose of reality.
I had gone out with some friends for dinner and ate a lot – we’re talking fat kid status of grilled cheese and french fries with a hard cider (or two). Later that night, I woke up with what I thought was food poisoning. Aching gut, repeated trips to the restroom, nausea, the whole nine yards. However, the pain didn’t ebb and flow like I’ve experienced in the past, and only kept increasing exponentially. Mr. P² and my mom finally decided I needed to go to the ER after two hours of unending pain.
I’m not a fan of doctors or hospitals, so sitting in a packed ER waiting room for over two hours in excruciating pain while vomiting was pretty hellish. Despite my crippling fear of needles, it was almost a relief when I was finally admitted, given a bed to lay down, and stuck with an IV that included the most magical morphine. Then came the news that Mr. P² had suspected: it wasn’t food poisoning, but in fact a terrible gallbladder infection with possible stones in various parts of my abdominal cavity, and my gallbladder would need to be removed ASAP.
This news had drug cocktail-induced visions of huge hospital bills dancing in my head. Thankfully, some long-term budget planning, decent insurance and doctors (mostly) covered by my plan helped a lot. I wasn’t thrilled to find out afterwards that one of the doctors was not covered even though we had specifically asked, but sometimes necessity outweighs cost analysis.
There were many lessons learned through this experience. For instance, I didn’t realize they take your blood EVERY TWO HOURS. As someone who’s deathly afraid of needles, this is pretty much akin to torture, especially when you’re desperately trying to sleep in an already uncomfortable situation. Mr. P² was the ultimate champ while I was hospitalized, staying with me pretty much the entire time and barely getting any sleep. It was a reaffirming preview for when I eventually give birth, and quite honestly I would have been so much worse off emotionally if he hadn’t been my rock through the whole thing.
Neither of us had planned to miss work those days or deal with the costs associated with surgery and a hospital stay, however, sometimes the plan goes right out the window and all you can do is roll with the punches.
But seriously – EVERY TWO FUCKING HOURS! I hope there’s a well-fed vampire somewhere at that hospital.
All the best,