Appendicitis Revisited

By the time the night of my surgery came around, I had already subjected myself to months of excruciating pain. Usually once a week, I would find myself confined to my bed, squirming around and clutching my gut, wishing I could simply ask what the hell I had eaten earlier. As far as I knew, it seemed as though my abdomen had adopted a set schedule of pain by which it dared not deter. It was the type of thing that makes you consult Google. It was early on that I decided that this was likely appendicitis due to how often it was happening.

The pain I was feeling was relentless. It came suddenly and it could never leave quickly enough. There were plenty of nights where I would have much rather been out and about as opposed to burying my face into a pillow, wanting to scream. The worst part of this repeating ordeal is that I simply let it happen. I’d occasionally tell my parents about the pain, but they would always shrug it off and blame it on my poor eating habits (regardless of what they think, Taco Bell and McDonald’s are totally worth the minor complications they tend to bring). I still don’t blame them for thinking the way they did. I’m sure if I had spent a few hours creating a large enough scene, they would have given in and started to believe me.

Eventually, they cracked. One night, when the pain was particularly bad, my father offered to drive me to the hospital. He’s a nurse, and a well-respected one at that. Naturally, it would have been smarter to listen to him. I declined initially, as I, much like everyone else, hate going to the hospital unless it is an absolute necessity. So, for a few more hours, I remained in my bed. By midnight, I was certain that someone was juggling chainsaws in my gut. A few yelps later and I found myself in the back of my dad's car as we sped through the night.

Personally, I like the way hospitals smell. I know that hospitals terrify many people, so I doubt that this is a common trait. It’s like walking into a massive latex glove. It’s therapeutic in a sense, as your brain has clearly associated the smell with receiving treatments for whatever ailment you have. While the classic hospital smell was present that night, the typical silence was pierced by a loud wailing in the distance. It wasn't a cry stemming from physical pain. It was far too deep, with plenty of effort being put behind it. Perhaps someone had just lost a loved one.

This wasn’t the sound I wanted to hear knowing that I would likely be sliced open before the sun came up. If anything, it was a sharp call back to the reality of the situation. Something was wrong with me, and if it truly was appendicitis, that would mean I’ve been allowing an inflamed appendix to sit inside of me for months. I knew the consequences of it bursting, yet I had been content enough lying in my bed waiting for it to happen. It’s incredible how stupid one can be.

The hours leading up to the surgery were a blur. I recall an older doctor doing an initial examination, followed by me being wheeled to numerous rooms to have a wide array of tests done. As time went by, and the drugs they were giving me began to take their full effects, I was definitely getting a tad loopy. One of my strongest memories is naming my IV line and actually carrying on a conversation with it. It was nice having company, but I’d never met someone so conceited.

As expected, the culprit was appendicitis. It was a good thing we had come in that particular night, because according to the doctor, it was likely only a few days from rupturing. This would have complicated things tremendously and could have easily resulted in a painful death.

At around six in the morning, I was finally being wheeled off to an operating room. My dad was walking alongside, telling me that my mom would be on her way as soon as her shift at work was over. Right before I went into an elevator, he leaned over to give me a hug. As cliché has it may sound, my father is a fairly tough guy. He’s a black belt in karate, an avid hunter and, in general, your typical manly-man. That’s why it was so alarming to see that look of concern in his eyes as he leaned in. We both knew that the surgery was extremely common and was usually nothing to worry about. Still, I’m not able to imagine the thoughts that were likely rushing through his head. It must be utterly terrifying to know your kid is about to go under the knife. I remember him telling me that I’d be okay, and that he would see me soon. Even in my drugged state, it was at this point I fully sensed the severity of the situation.

The last thing I remember seeing was how stunningly white the operating room was. I heard them say that they were going to put me under, and a few moments later I felt as though the Earth's gravity was attempting to destroy me. The feeling didn't last long, as my vision had begun to blur and any feeling of pain was beginning to fade away. I muttered a quick "good luck" to the surgeon, and fell asleep immediately after.