Appendicitis

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. Still, I feel as though I knew something was wrong.

One night, when the pain was particularly bad, my father offered to drive me to the hospital. Being a nurse, it would have been wise to simply follow his advice. 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. You walk in and it just smacks you in the face. The thing about the smell is that it just feels therapeutic because you know that by the time you leave, something will have been done to remedy your condition. The classic hospital smell was intact that night, but 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. Not the thought you want to have when you walk into a hospital, doubled over from pain.

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 the night went on, and the drugs they were giving me continued to take effect, I found a friend in my IV line. I had named it and we had many conversations that night.

As expected, the culprit was appendicitis, so at around six in the morning, I was finally being wheeled off to an operating room. The last thing I remember seeing was how stunningly white the 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.