I have reached a new level for myself that I haven’t quite come to while not taking my anti-depressants. I went to write about my wonderful experience of having my appendix removed and only two sentences deep I ceased caring to write about it any further. Now, that could be because the whole ordeal was said and done in a few hours and already am I in tip-top shape (and where is the drama in that) or is it because I just lost interest?
I bring it up because it has always been a big point of contention with me and my meds. I usually stop taking them because they take away my want to write almost in the similar fashion as I stated above, but maybe, just maybe, sometimes what I have to write about is boring and doesn’t need to be said.
The whole ordeal was truly simple. I woke up Monday morning to cramps, which eventually led me to take milk of magnesia to end it, but what ended up happening was making the situation far worse. When I woke at 3 in the morning on Tuesday I knew then it was appendicitis and I needed to get to the emergency room as soon as possible; and having taken a laxative made the situation even direr. I dressed and woke the husband to tell him I was going to the ER. When I saw his look of confusion and annoyance I second-guessed myself. Maybe I was just being overdramatic and it was all in my head.
To put an exclamation point on that idea I tore of my ring, threw it at the nightstand, and then proclaimed “Whatever. Fuck it. I’ll just die,” and threw myself back into the bed, wincing from the sharp pain in my abdomen. Yeah. No one could ever accuse me of being a drama queen.
I laid there for a moment thinking about it and then decided to listen to the multiple voices that had stated on some medical website “go to the emergency room asap.” So I went.
If you ever need to go to the ER, take the advice I was given, go at 3 AM in the middle of the week. There was absolutely no one there and I was in a bed in the back within twenty minutes tops. One nurse told me that people usually wait until the weekend to go because they don’t want to miss work, or they specifically wait until the morning to actually have an excuse not to go.
The doctor who was assigned to me was this old man with a gaunt face who made me think of “Filch” from the Harry Potter films. I told him, when he asked why I was there, that I thought I had appendicitis, to which he rolled his eyes. Yeah, I’m sure it’s not fun having the internet around for people to self-diagnose. What made me like the dude was his casual, almost up-beat response ten minutes after my CT scan, telling me, “You have appendicitis!”
My husband didn’t go with me on this early morning adventure because he thought I was being overdramatic and that it was nothing. I took immense satisfaction in telling him I was right.
When he realized that I was correct, he felt like shit and took two days off work to attend to me. Which is nice, but why does he have to miss work because I have appendicitis? I guess I just don’t operate that way. If the roles were reversed I don’t think I would have done the same. Even my parents showed up to sit and wait with me, which I don’t understand. I brought a book and my Gameboy to keep me occupied.
(Sidenote: whenever you go to the ER take a book, it seriously occupies your time that it feels like the whole thing is a spa day. I took one when I went to the emergency room when I had a bad infection from diverticulitis/colitis. I spent 8 hours there, but the “Goblet of Fire” made it feel like maybe a couple hours.)
What this event taught me is to trust my gut. (Pun intended.) I knew what was up from the moment it happened. I also have been expecting this to happen because I am just like my mother and have had surgeries in identical order, just the ages are different. That said, I imagine the meds do effect my feelings towards writing. In the writing of this post I found that my initial thoughts were both wrong, it was merely just me second-guessing myself. What really happened, was I was going about writing it all wrong.