Body Parts
Kathleen Doherty
Kathleen Doherty
I was heading to school with my daughter. I drive, she talks. “My life is over.” “You’re kidding, right? How did you come to this?’ I ask her. I’m approaching the Greenwood Village speed trap and looking for “donut cop” on his bike, wearing his Arapahoe County blue shirt stretched to the max. “Mom, you drive like an old lady, no cop will ever ticket you.” “Fine. Why are you old?” Oops. “I mean, why is your life over?” “Thanks for that. You think so too. Anyhow, I’m getting married and then after that what is there – really?” “There’s finishing school, there’s hopefully a better job, and travel if you two don’t want kids. Making a life for yourself.” “So what does that look like? I’m not thinking it’s so great.” I do my best not to sigh, but I can’t pull a quick smart Mom answer out of my bag of tricks. “Seriously, what is there? We exist, right? We get married, we work, we pay bills, we buy stuff, we travel and pay bills. What is there?” Mothers pick their battles. This is not one I want to engage in. My stomach lurches and I think, “Wow, even my stomach is upset at her line of thought.” That or the Havarti cheese at lunch. I stay quiet while she continues her monologue. Was I such a fatalist at twenty-five? I maneuver the car into the school garage, park and get out. I feel worse - how in the world can this one- sided argument make me physically sick? I lay my head on my arm against the side of the car. “What is wrong?” my daughter demands, grabbing her plaid book bag and slamming the car door closed. “I’m trying not to throw up.” I mutter. She looks relieved and pushes her sunglasses back on her head. “Oh. Wow, I thought you were mad, you got so quiet.” I have a presentation to give during the second class. I have to feel better; these are our last classes before break. “Let’s go grab a Seven-up. Maybe that will help me. I think it’s gas.” “Well, can we go to the bathroom first? Long commute, lot’s of coffee.” “Sure. Maybe that will help.” It doesn’t. I go to wash my hands and she comes out and looks at me, frowning. “You don’t look so good, Mom. Why don’t you hang out in the car until the second class and rest?” “No, I came all the way down here and I already parked. I can do this.” We walked towards the student union building and into the mini-mart where the line is wrapped out the door. I grabbed a Sprite and looked at the clock – we’re going to be late. The girl ahead of me tried to use her credit card for a package of gum – the credit card machine was down. She began fumbling through her purse, pulling out random and various coins, talking on her cell phone the entire time. “I know; that’s what I’m saying. I mean, like what is he thinking not even calling me. Hello – I have a cell phone. I’m talking to you aren’t I? It’s just so – so bad – and then when he does call and I don’t like answer –mmmm- hang on, hang on, someone’s calling – Hello? Oh, hi honey! Oh I’ve been waiting for you to call – but listen, hon, can I, can you call me back in a few – yeah, that would be great, mm-hmm – yeah, love you honey, bye –yeah, that was him, whatever…oh wait a sec, I need to find one more dime…” Sweat started down my back as I stood, waiting. I watched the clock, the girl, the cashier, sensed the line getting longer behind me every minute. My daughter began to pull cash out for the soda, but I had it ready before Cell-Girl cleared the door. The cashier looked at me in relief at seeing someone with Cash-In-Fist. We went back to my car again to retrieve my projector, laptop, books – none of which I was looking forward to carrying between two buildings and an intersection. We managed to beat the professor to the classroom and I went back to the bathroom again – it had to be gas. No luck. I trudged back to the classroom and tried to quietly open the soda and get situated with pen, notebook. The professor walked in and launched into his lecture. I stared at the board ahead of me, focusing on the metal strip holding the chalk to help me ignore the pain running across the top of my rib cage – or at least where I believed my rib cage to be last located. My daughter sat next to me and hissed over to me. “Get out of here!” “No, I have a presentation next class!” “You look awful.” “Too bad.” “You’re pissing me off!” The professor glanced at us and we sat back up – or tried to. I couldn’t get comfortable. I decided that maybe I had to leave, after all. My daughter had a point. Was I really going to be able to pull off a presentation if I was this sick? And I didn’t seem to be getting better. I tried one sip of Sprite – yuck. I stared hard at my notebook, not able to hear a word of the lecture. Okay, then, I can’t make it – because I have to get out of here right now. I don’t remember or sense the noise of my pop bottle hitting the floor. All I knew was that I had to leave - ASAP. I bent down, retrieved the projector and backpack with the laptop. I clutched my pop bottle and placed it on the desk, then looked at my daughter and tried to smile and joke. “Don’t open that thing, hear? Can you get my books?” She nodded. The professor looked at me, no doubt amazed that I was deciding to interrupt his lecture – and trying to make light of it. “Are you okay?” he asked. I scooped up my coat and ducked around him. “Not really.” I said. I headed out, not looking back. This abrupt exit would cost me, but I was in too much pain to really care. It was the worst case of gas ever and I had had some horrific cases of gas in my life. I got to the car and crawled in, driving home – in the middle of rush hour traffic. I got to a lane and a speed at which I figured I could safely call my daughter’s fiancé, Mannox. I explained the situation and that he would need to drive to the campus and pick her up. “Well, how do I get there? I mean, can you give me directions?” he asked. I squeezed my eyes tight while stopped and tried to breathe out, expelling all the air. What the hell did they say in Lamaze classes? Pant like a dog? I can’t pant; the pain is not letting up. “Uhhh, look, just get on the interstate, get off at Colfax, turn right at Seventh. It’s easy, there won’t be any traffic.” “What about cross streets? Can you give me those?” The pain began to shoot across my stomach again; I gritted my teeth. “Uhhh, no, look, I need to hang up and drive. Call her cell; she can talk you in, Okay?” “Sure, no problem. Feel better.” I would like to - I began counting to see if that would help. Maybe it’s a tubal pregnancy? No, it can’t be; I haven’t been sexually active in years, decades. Maybe you can get that without having sex. Great. I pulled off at my exit and kept driving. I kept breathing whatever way made me feel more comfortable – which is a way of saying, not in shrieking pain. I pulled the car into the garage, dragged myself out of it and grabbed a can of sparkling water. Somehow I got into the house. Where was the lemon juice? It was my standby cure for gas and usually would kick it right out of me within mere minutes. I changed into my nightgown and swallowed as much of my miracle concoction as fast as I could. Then I tried to lie down in my bed, even granting myself a few moans - which was ridiculous since I was home alone no one could even hear me. However, lying down was not something my body was going to let me do; the pain continued. I got up, tore through my bathroom for some indigestion pills and swallowed them with more of my concoction. Then I wrapped myself up in a blanket and tried to sleep. Not a chance. My stomach was having none of it. Should I go to the hospital? It’s only gas – horrid gas, granted, but gas. And it’s gas that doesn’t seem to want to leave via any normal routes, by any type of encouragement. Hmmm. What if the people at the hospital say it’s just gas, and send me home? I’m going to have to pay a big co-pay for that. Hmmm. I twisted around to get some relief, gave up, pulled at my headboard to get myself into a sitting position and got up. I dialed my next door neighbor, The General. She has earned that title by stepping in and taking charge of every possible wayward urchin in our neighborhood, not to mention enforcing, for everyone’s own good, various rules of the HOA we live under. “Hello?” “General, I need you to do something for me. Without freaking out. Okay?” “What is it?” “I need a ride to Mainstreet Adventist.” “What’s that?” “It’s a hospital, you moron. You work in this town and you don’t even know the name of your own hospital?” “It sounded like a church. Okay, fine. What’s wrong?” “I have gas.” “What?” “I think it’s gas. I don’t know. It’s not going away.” “Okay. We’ll be over in a few.” I bent over and tried to do whatever I could to get rid of this gas. Nothing. At this rate, I was going to explode like a runaway Macy’s balloon. I got back upstairs, pulled my clothes back on, grabbed my wallet (they will want money, no doubt), and edged downstairs out the door. The General’s husband had the car backed up on the driveway. I slid in the front, ignoring the seat belt, and closed the door. “What’s wrong? What is it? How do you feel? Can you describe it?” I closed my eyes. I’d forgotten to tell her not to give me the inquisition ordeal. “I don’t know. I think it’s gas. They had better not send me home without giving me something because this sucks. It’s worse than labor.” “It’s your gall bladder. Mmm-hmm. That’s right. Gall bladder.” I turned my head back at her. “You don’t know that.” “My sister’s a nurse, she knows. It’s a gall bladder, betcha, mmmhmmm. Honey, step on it. Watch you don’t speed.” I sighed. “Whatever.” The General’s husband did make excellent time and turned into the lane where the hospital was. “Uhhh, I don’t know where I need to go here…”he began. Not to worry, the General pointed out the obvious. “Well, honey, it’s right there, for heaven’s sake, just point to it, can’t you see she’s in pain? “ He made a turn too quick in one of the new roundabouts that took us away from the hospital. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain and the barrage that was about to happen. “Ahhh shit!” “Well honey, you can see that this is not the way…now why…” I groaned. “Gen, for the love of God, shut the hell up!” I looked sideways at her husband, who had a small grin forming on his face. “Don’t get too excited, there. I’m in pain, I’m not taking sides.” “Ohhhh, but I am sooo enjoying the moment.” We got to the main entrance. I got out rather than ask to go to the ER; moving seemed better for some reason. The General hopped out with me and marched to the doors. Since she has a good six inches on me in height and didn’t have any gas pain, she was moving at a good clip. I stumbled along behind her resembling Quasimodo with asthma. She would turn and scowl and wave her frantic arms at me to hurry, hurry. I would continue my stumbling, lurching gait, but I held back from swinging my arms and saying, “Yes, Master.” The ER was empty aside from one kid with a paper cut that was ahead of me. The clerk looked at me without any possible expression that I could note. “What seems to be the problem?” I wanted to scream but it was probably not her fault that I had this gas from that Havarti cheese. Anyhow, it didn’t matter – the General stepped in. “She’s in a lot of pain. In her abdomen. She says it’s gas. However, I think it’s gall bladder.” I growled at her, but she ignored me. “What is your pain level from one to ten?” “I’m at about twenty.” I gasped. “No, between one and ten.” “Fine. Ten.” “I need your insurance card. Here’s some paperwork. Have you visited us before?” Why yes, I was here last during your semiannual white sale. “Yes, I’m a frequent flyer.” Still no expression. She scanned her screen. “Oh, yes you have. Vertigo, how interesting. Oh and migraines.” “I’m still getting those, by the way.” She turned away. I walked over to the chairs and started writing on the forms, thinking about Grey’s Anatomy. How come they never show this part of the process? The General hovered over me; I looked up at her and rolled my eyes. “Sit. Stay. Good General.” I raced through the paperwork (because I have already been here before and you have this information). I managed to walk over and hand her the clipboard. “Okay, thanks. There’s one ahead of you.” Who takes their kid to the ER for a paper cut? Maybe he’s a hemophiliac, though. I’d better not raise a fuss. He and his parents are called a few minutes later. I get called about fifteen minutes later – I think – I’m not sure because I’m starting to lose sense of time. The General comes with – ordering her husband to stay who isn’t too interested in coming anyhow. We go into triage – like MASH. I sit, or I try but by now I am really hurting and I am digging my nails into the armrests. Not an easy thing to do, since they’ re wood and not padded. All the same, I’m leaving my mark. “Okay, I need to get some vitals from you and some information.” This is where the General comes in very handy. “You have her information. She’s been here before, she has yet again filled out the same information and her name and address have not changed since she got here. So how about just getting her vitals since she is in some pretty horrendous pain, okay?” He glares at her, but pulls out his triage kit. I am gripping the armrests with all my force from the pain. “Stop that right now!” he barks. “I need to get your blood pressure.” I see The General’s hand come up, and I signal, no! We get done and he snaps a couple bracelets on me, thereby admitting me further into the hospital, or at least away from him. We go to yet another room, but at this point, they are setting up an IV. This may not be gas. One of the male nurses comes in and hands me a gown. “Hop on into bed, honey, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for awhile.” He isn’t joking; we end up waiting for orders to come through, by which time The General is pacing and ready to start taking on the entire hospital. An intern shows up, gets an IV going, and another male nurse shows up – Scott, who could forget the name of the person who brings you drugs, right? – Who shot something in the IV to start me out on and had to keep upping it. I didn’t care, he took the pain away, he was my savior – I may have proposed to him at some point. A lab tech came in and mentioned that my white count was pretty elevated so they wanted to keep me. They also wanted me to get an ultrasound, blah, blah, blah, whatever it is they say on Grey’s Anatomy. Scott had to follow my bed down the hall to the ultrasound at a trot with the meds to keep me out of pain. The tech there took one look and snapped at me, “We’re done here. How did you miss this??!!” I looked at him like he was the professor I walked out on earlier. “Miss what?” “This. Here. Your gall bladder is packed full of gallstones. How did you not know that?” Perhaps because my home ultrasound machine was repossessed? “I uh, I don’t, uh, know.” “You mean to tell me tonight is the very first time you have had any kind of pain?” He folded his arms and stared at me. “Well, I’m not in the medical field. I thought it was gas.” Scott wheeled me back to the holding room. “Wow, so I flunked his test.” I muttered. Scott laughed. He informed The General and her husband that it was my gall bladder and all indications were that it was going to have to come out. I needed to wait for a room – and a surgeon – in whatever order that should come. The General could not have been happier; she glowed with satisfaction, pausing only to remind me of how she just knew, just knew what it was. There was no silencing her. She called my daughter and her fiancé, waited for them to show up and then left me for them to take over the watch. The surgeon arrived eventually. Of course he was a handsome – why not? Grey’s Anatomy, right? “Hi there, I hear you’re not feeling so good. I think your gall bladder needs to come out, which will make you feel a lot better very shortly.” At this point, knowing it’s not gas, and rolling between valleys of pain and some brainless drug-induced state, I’m quite agreeable to anything except that I realize my hair has a one inch skunk line of gray and I may have not shaved my legs. I roll toward my daughter. “Oh God, he’s hot. And I didn’t shave my legs, “I whisper. At least I think – or hope – I whispered. She looked at me with one of her looks she reserves for special morons that pester her at her coffee shop. “I think he’ll take care of that.” I smile at him.”Okay, take whatever. Just get rid of this pain.” He’s got the bedside manner down to an art form, takes my hand in his (his hands are really warm) and smiles. Nice eyes. Brown. I like brown eyes. I have brown eyes. Maybe we’re related. Wait! Wedding ring – stop! “So I’m going to try and do this by laparoscopy. Do you know what that is?” I nod. “If I can’t, we’ll need to open you up, but let’s try laparoscopy first which is a few small incisions. I usually perform this on an outpatient basis. It’s minimally invasive. I promise you that once we get that out you will feel a whole lot better. I have a few scheduled ones ahead of you but I’ m going to work you in later in the day, alright? In the meantime, we’ll keep you as comfortable as we can.” I don’t bother saying that if there’s a knife handy I can take it out right now and save everyone some time, as long as I can get some relief. “Hey, wait. Can I watch?” My daughter has suddenly come to life from the other side of the bed. He looks at her. “What?” “Can I watch the operation? I think it would be interesting.” He looks down at me and then over to her. “This is your mother, right?” “Well, yes, of course. She won’t mind.” “This uh, isn’t a training hospital.” “Okay. Can I get the gall bladder then?” “What? Why?” “I’ve never seen one…” “No, we need to have that; you can’t just take it...” “It belongs to my mom, not you. I should get to keep it.” I’m suddenly feeling like a side of beef at a butcher shop. “What in the world are you going to do with it? Wait – what, no, you can not have it.” “Okay, how about a couple gallstones?” Maybe I’m at a Christie’s auction, not a butcher shop. He sighs. “I’ll see. I suppose you’d like a kidney too.” I snap my head toward him. “Wait, I need mine don’t I?” “It won’t be yours. Let me see what I can do.” He makes his exit. My daughter folds her arms.“I don’t see why I can’t at least watch. I’ll scrub up and everything.” “No, you’ll be the one that drops the damn Junior Mint in me,” I say, referring to a Seinfeld episode. Sometime later I made it to surgery, though the entire ordeal is one long drug trip. I remember trying to work a deal with one of the nurses for their scrub hat. Since I came home without one, I am assuming that the deal fell through. I found myself back in my room with the migraine from hell and really not feeling well, though the nurse on duty was pleased that the laparoscopy was a success. I begged for drugs and hours later I got them and perked right up. My daughter and the fiancé came in. “Well you look much better than you did yesterday”, said my daughter’s fiancé. “Did you get any sleep?” my daughter asked. “You still look tired.” Behind her green eyes I could see the fear slowly ebbing away. Smart ass comments aside, I’m the last parent standing. She would prefer to keep me that way for awhile. “No, I have to go home to sleep. When do I get out of here?" “I don’t know. We missed the doctor; we went out to eat while you were in surgery and he left before we got back because he had four more waiting. The guy’s a machine!” “I don’t think they will keep me too long because he said this is usually done on an outpatient gig. But I feel so much better. I had a migraine that sucked. And these nurses are all trying to fix me up with a date, so I need to get out of here.” Mannox laughed. “I didn’t get the damn gallstones! I missed him because we went to eat!” my daughter said, exasperated. “He said he came out, we weren’t there, so I missed my chance.” “That or it’s an excuse. Maybe it’s against some stupid law.” I said. “Well, they belong to you. You should have a say so in who gets them.” She switched topics. “If you get released, who can take you home?” “I guess The General. Do you two have plans?” “We got invited to a party. Do you mind? It’s my birthday weekend so I was going to go.” Suddenly there may be a something to life, she had decided. Beyond twenty-five, life may not all end after some ridiculous ceremony next year. “Well, let me call The General. I would prefer not to have to climb into Mannox’s pick-up truck. I can take a cab, I guess.” My daughter rolled her eyes. “Oh let me pack my bags – Mom’s sending me on another guilt trip!” Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Oh shush, I don’t even know when I’m getting out.” “Well, you should go home today. Now. This place is not helping you.” “Wouldn’t you rather I stayed here one more night so you know someone is watching me?” “Not really. I think The General does a better job.” “Well, let me see what they say, I will do my best to get sprung and If I run into an issue I’ll call you but assume I have it under control and I’m going home otherwise, okay? And thank you.” “For what?” “Pfft! For sitting up with me and dealing with me, you putz.” I have since recovered, though at the time, my coworkers have decided that there may be a market for a t-shirt with “I Thought It Was Gas.” One manager sent out an e-mail warning people that he saw a gallbladder bouncing down the hall and was wondering if it was mine. The final comment was the one guy made the comment that while all gave some, I definitely gave all. The professor at school was not impressed with my exit or my excuse. I pointed out that I did try to minimize the impact on his lecture. Nonetheless, I ended up with a B, not an A. Whether body part drama had something to do with that was never determined. I was told I didn’t need it – I am surviving without it. So what really is a gall bladder? © Kathleen Doherty All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
| We like this story because: It speaks to us of the frailty of the human vessel which we drive through this life with the power of the will. Always hoping that it might last that little bit longer... |
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