Sunday I had a gallstone attack.
You might remember that I was, like, totally supposed to be getting this fucking thing sliced out of me, oh, a month and a half ago. I never actually went back to the surgeon. I figured that since the last time I had an attack was in July, maybe I wouldnt have problems, anymore.
Yeah, not so much.
I had just fucking walked up the stairs in my house and was sitting down to feed the monkey when I felt the telltale burning in my upper back. I was immediately nervous, and started pacing my room. I looked at M. I told him what was up. I called my parents and told them that we were headed to the ER, and they should meet us there to pick up the kid. Newborn + Emergency Room = Potential Evil. When we got there, I was still in dull pain. Then it went away. Then it came back with the fire of a thousand suns. I made it to the back a few minutes before I started crying and making deals with God. A nurse wandered in for some random reason, saw me crying, and immediately went to get some drugs in my system. 10 minutes later, I was feeling fan-frickin-tastic. The doctor was all, “Uh, yeah… maybe you should get that surgery, now.”
I left the place about 4 hours later with a script for percocet and the knowledge that I was so totally definitely seriously calling the surgeon on Monday.
And I did.
I go see him tomorrow so we can pick a date to do this thing.
I’d forgotten just how bad the pain could get. And, ya know, now that I’m out of the moment, I still cant get a full handle on just how much pain I end up in. I’m tempted to say, “Ya know, its not that bad…” but no. It is that bad. It is evil, ridiculous, horrific pain. It felt better than the last time, only because this time I didnt have a twat kicking the source of the pain, but not by much.
No. I have to have this surgery. Yep. I really do.
I get a week off of work, ice cream, pain meds, sympathy, and the knowledge that I will never have to fear this kind of thing happening again.