Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Appendicitis as an adult

I was home for the summer during my Senior year of college when I was struck down with appendicitis.

I woke up about 5 a.m. feeling really nauseous and sick. My whole body just felt “polluted.” My mom guessed at the cause and had me poke around my abdomen. Severe pain on the lower-right side confirmed her suspicions and she whisked me away to the emergency room.

The doctor poked my abdomen (Ow! Stop that!) and a blood test confirmed it. I was in the operating room by 7 a.m. and waking up from the ordeal later that morning. It all happened so fast. There was absolutely no time to get frightened.

I woke up feeling strange. And hungry! I was starving. They said all I could have was a little Jell-o, but I wanted a Domino’s delivery guy by my bedside instead of a nurse.

But a nurse appeared with a urinal jug and commanded me to urinate in it.

“I don’t need to pee,” said I.

“Yes you do. You’re just numb from down there and can’t tell.”

“I really don’t need to pee!” said I, more emphatically.

“If you don’t, then we’ll have to go with a catheter.”

Later. . . .

“Do you have another jug? I just filled this one up.”

Later that afternoon, the anesthesia wore off and I didn’t want Domino’s anymore. Only heavy narcotics would do. A nurse supplied an injection of Demerol.

Oh. My. God! That is fun stuff!

I wanted seconds. And thirds.

Actually, I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, but I wasn’t about to tell them that. I was bored, Demerol was my new best friend and the only entertainment available.

A couple of days later, my mom stopped by with a two of her middle-school students in tow. She and I had this planned. I had placed some apple juice in a clean urine-sample container and had it sitting there on my tray table. I’m sure the two tween-aged girls noticed it.

When my mom was about to leave, I said, “Oh, Mom, could you drop this off at the lab down the hall on your way out? Oh wait. . . Let me run it through again.” And I drank it in one big gulp.

Being tween-aged girls, of course, they squealed and were horrified.

It was fun.

Soon, I recovered enough to be discharged from the hospital and from my Demerol.

Sigh. . . . Good times.


At 8:08 PM , Blogger Red7Eric said...

There is nothing more pleasing than squealing, grossed-out, middle-school-aged girls.


At 11:59 PM , Blogger Lorraine said...

I just called to say "I love you".


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home