"That Fiend! That louse!" or Tales of My Appendectomy

It happened.

It finally happened.

My body has finally turned the occasional rebellion (of nausea and tummy aches), into what it always has been threatening to do.

My body has started a war.

Not just any war, but one that will go down in the history books as the battle to end all battles, a mêlée to end all mêlées (I really just wanted to type mêlée... twice), and the fight to end all fights, of the most ghastly and horrific proportions.

A great and terrible war was waged inside my little girl body this last weekend. Fortunately for all of you, my beautiful friends, diligent readers, and insane stalkers, I won this war, and lived to spin this dreadful tale... but really only because my mother and the lovely staff of the Alta View Hospital made me.

I was tricked into surgery.

The nice surgeon plucked the offending organ (if it really can even be called an organ) out of my body last Friday evening. Previous to this fine day of surgery, I had plans to go out dancing that Friday evening, to spend a beautiful night of this waning summer in the company of my frivolous friends and boys who probably would ask me for my number. Unfortunately for my dancing shoes and phone number, my plans were swiftly ruined by my treacherous appendix.

Thursday night.
I was enjoying a fine post-Sonic Youth evening in the company of Gossip Girl, imported Chocolate, and a hunky 1/2 Tongan, when my stomach decided to hate me. This happens A LOT (just ask B) so I really thought nothing of it.

Friday morning.
I woke up to go to my Anatomy/Physiology class, but found that I was probably not going to live through the morning (I'm dramatic, so sue me), so I moaned to my mommy to come get me from Provo, because driving myself in this state of angst 30 minutes north didn't seem like a fun option for me. She couldn't immediately come pick me up, so I made it to class for the top-o-the-mornin' quiz, then struggled out of class and into the wide open halls of UVU to plead for a ride north. Thankfully, I didn't pass out on the floor in front of the dance rooms until I got a hold of my dear friend Fish, who promised to come immediately to my rescue. After my stint at licking the hallway floor, I shook myself into a more conscieous manner and crawled out to the grass outside to await pickup. I couldn't walk. That should have been my first sign of that the war had begun.

So darling Andrew Fishkins trundeled me off to my mother's home, who immediately ran me into the Instacare, WHICH USUALLY IS NOT MY FAVORITE WEEKEND HANG OUT SPOT (every single time I go there, they draw blood or stick needles in me. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. It's like they can't resist the draw of my sticky red goo). There the battle progressed as follows: urine test (fun!), stomach x-ray (fun fun! My first hospital gown experience of the day!), blood work (didn't I JUST tell you this would happen?), IV drip (FUN FUN FUN!). Then the delightful people at that medical institution decided that NO, I didn't have the flu, nor was I just constipated (funny), but I needed to go to an actual hospital for more tests. More specifically, that I needed a cat scan. In my pain killer induced state (did I mention how awesome that IV drip actually was??? Those suckers aren't just for massive dehydration, people...) I asked my mother how many cats would actually be thrown at me. Yes. I'm blaming the pain killers.

Friday late-afternoon.
I hate Crystal Lite. I especially hate Crystal Lite which is mixed with iodine. I especially especially hate Crystal Lite mixed with iodine that I have to drink large quantities of in order to get a cat scan. Why they make you do this... I'll never know. There aren't enough old issues of Seventeen magazine in a waiting room that can you though a bottle of ol' crystal iodine. I don't care what the vintage is...

(2nd hospital gown experience for the day)
I kinda like cat scans. I got to hold my arms above my head while the machine moved me back and forth beneath the scanner. I kept a constant silent scream in my head, and pretended that this was all just a really exciting roller coaster ride. Also, the guy running the cat scan thought I was under 100 lbs. I might have given him my number... not sure exactly... the pain killers were still running rampid.

Ma mere had to take off to handle a family situation (aka. make sure her other prodigy hadn't killed each other yet), so I was alone for the period of time that my doctors were all deliberating what was to be done with me. I mostly just sat in the waiting room and read Seventeen magazine (OMG. Leggings aren't pants Lindsay!) and waited for my mother to come back and get me, because in my mind there was no way I was getting surgery that day. That thought hadn't even crossed my mind. The doctors informed that my appendix was pretty enflamed, but I hadn't the slightest what that really meant. Those pain killers were doing their job quite well, and I was pretty sure that those blood suckers had gotten enough of my red human goo to satisfy them till next time I drop by. I was pretty ready to just go home with a perscription for an antibiotic.

BUT THEN, I was escorted to surgery. I was made to fill out papers and to basically check into the hospital, which is when it hit me- I was checking into the hospital. I asked the ladies at the front desk what was going on... and they were mostly just shocked that no one had spelled it out for the little tiny thing (they thought I was 18... awesome) crying in front of them.

I was getting my appendix removed... and that was that.

You know how this ends.

Anyone wanna see the laparoscopy photos?