TMI Thursday: Lose Weight, Feel...er...Great? I guess...

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

So, it's the New Year. Time for resolutions and for everyone who has ignored their waistline through the previous eleven months to suddenly want it to shrink again.

While I myself am too perfect, thus rendering the action of resolving to better myself moot, I am here to help you lose weight. It's the Patent-Pending Indefatigable Weight Loss Program, guaranteed to rid you of some of that unwanted weight you've got just lying around in your colon.

The first thing you should do is walk--no, run--to the hospital and get your gall bladder removed. This running isn't so much for the health benefits but to assist you into getting in shape, because you'll be doing a lot of running to the can in a few short weeks.

Once recovered from the cholecystectomy, run again to the the local grocer. There, buy the ingredients for an Irish Boiled Dinner and run home again to prepare. Three hours later, eat your fill of the oh so delicious Irish Boiled Dinner. You'll have plenty of left-overs, so you can repeat this latter part of the diet without needing to cook more.

Proceed quickly to the nearest restroom. Plunk yourself down on the toilet. Proceed to shit your brains out. Try not to vomit at the roiling pain in your bowels and/or the cloud of stench that permeates you after evacuating your bowels in a manner most liquid. Wipe. Flush. Flush again. Flush again, lest someone link that stank-ass mephitis to you.

Leave the bathroom with your head lowered in shame.

Be sure to drink water to replace the fluids lost through your bowels.

Repeat.

All this and more for the low price of $19.95!!! Call now, and I'll throw in a pack of wet-wipes so you can mop your brow while sitting on the can, emptying yourself of the most vile-smelling filth your body can possibly ever hope to create in a rushing torrent of diarrhea and despair unwanted weight.

...And now you know how my days went from Saturday through Tuesday of this week.

Fortunately, no one who works in the biology half of my company reads this blog, so they can remain clueless as to whom it was that snuck over to the bathrooms and left a vile, foul-smelling haze in the air on Tuesday afternoon...

TMI Thursday: The Sashimi Strikes Back

In case you aren't aware of the goings-on of my internal organs, I've been down one since the fall of 2006. You can read my five-part recounting of the Ordeal, if you'd like. Just know that it involves a lot of sweat and lusting after blond nurses:

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

While there are many advantages to not having a gall bladder anymore (not being racked with pain sits right at the top of the list), there are also a few drawbacks. This is a story of one of them.

The gall bladder is a little sac hanging off the liver that stores bile. Bile is used in the processing, handling, and digesting of fatty foods. When fatty foods are ingested, the liver starts kicking out lots of bile in order to help with the digestion of said foods. Normally, excess bile is stored in the gall bladder and released as needed into the gut. However, when there is no gall bladder present, all the bile just gets shunted into the intestines and the body does with it what it will.

Now, the thing about bile is that it, too, is awfully greasy. It has a lot of cholesterol and such in it. So, one thing that you're not supposed to do when you've had your gall bladder removed is eat any particularly greasy, fatty meals. If you do, make sure a toilet is nearby because about 20 minutes after you've finished, you're going to feel the Apocalypse breaking out in your bowels. Once you find the toilet, Armageddon is played out, and then you're relatively fine. Hungry. But fine, nonetheless.

The problem is, I wasn't told all the things that one shouldn't eat. I mean, there are obvious ones, like meatball sandwiches or double-bacon cheeseburgers and fries or shots of olive oil. Apparently, one of the things you shouldn't eat is sushi. I learned this the hard way. Or should I say, "The soft, squishy, brown and redolent way"?

We went to lunch one day at a local sushi joint where a curvy redhead had poured herself in a dress three sizes too small and served as the seating hostess for the day. We ordered our lunch, which was brought to the table in a respectable amount of time and we proceeded to eat what turned out to be a fairly good lunch. I had the "sushi platter", but I don't remember what was on it, so please don't ask. It was very tasty and I thought, "Oh, I should come here more often. The food is good, the price is acceptable, and, well, the hostess doesn't know how to dress."

We finished up our lunch and departed for work. At the time, I worked in the off-the-main-site-facility, so I had ridden over to the restaurant with my friend. About halfway back to the lab, Christ opened the sixth seal, and the tell-tale rumbling began in my lower GI tract, warning me of impending doom.

Now, a couple of weeks ago, you all learned about the tensile strength and uncanny coordination of my rectum; I need not repeat it now. It was, however, a good thing, as I sat there in the passenger seat, clenching so tightly that I was sure diamonds would fall out of my ass when I let go. North Carolina roads happen to be shitty, so I'm sitting there, in misery, clenching, feeling the cauldron of my guts bubble bubble toil and trouble away, and on top of all that, we're riding over a stretch of highway that I could have sworn was shelled by the enemy the night before, given the size, frequency and depth of the potholes.

Drive faster, Joe! I screamed in my mind. I don't want to ruin your upholstery!

Finally, we arrive back at work. I slowly make my way across the parking lot--I'm already sweating bullets, but the high heat and humidity and the roasting asphalt of the parking lot are not helping. Finally, I make it into the building and I try--as delicately as possible--to climb the stairs to the second floor where the labs are. I excuse myself and timidly make my way to the restroom. There, I settle into my stall, sitting down, finally unclenching and letting nature run its course.

I unleashed the fury.

Did I mention bile stinks? It does. Badly. Not only that, but it burns. Oh, does it burn. As I unleashed the fury, I'm fairly certain that a plume of flame erupted forth from my ass, burning brightly in the sky for all to see like the triumphant return of Comet Kohoutek. Finally, as my innards disgorged that most unpleasant shit monsoon, I heaved a sigh of relief. Sushi was definitely off the menu.

I got up to clean up, and, because I'm a guy, I checked out my handiwork. Being that I've seen my own shit countless times, I wasn't surprised by that part of what huddled in the bowl. No, it was the oily sheen on the surface of the water that bothered me most. There it was, a rainbow of fish oil, shimmering in the light, misplaced over the bog monster lurking in the depths below. Despite the iridescent glow cloaking the surface of the water, I was certain beyond the shadow of a doubt that there was not a pot of gold at the end of it.

For the first time in my life, I nearly caused myself to vomit with my own poo. Fortunately, I had just shit the contents of my stomach into the bowl, so nothing came up. Unfortunately, the dry heave was powerful enough that it caused me to double over, placing my face within a very uncomfortable proximity to the gleaming surface of the bowl. This is how I am quite certain that bile carries with it a very unpleasant aroma.

Why bring this up now? Well, funny you should ask. Tomorrow, one of my co-workers is leaving the company to go back to graduate school, and she has requested to go to lunch at the very same restaurant where this unsightly and liquid brown adventure began. So, tomorrow, when I set out for lunch, I'll be sure to hitch a ride with whichever one of my friends has the fastest car.

Happy Saint Liborius Day!!!

Today, we celebrate a saint whose veneration is near and dear to my heart.

Er, check that, we celebrate a saint who is near and dear to my liver...and that empty spot where my gall bladder once resided.

That's right, folks, today is St. Librius' Day. He is, in fact, that patron saint of gall stones. He's also the patron saint of colic, fever and Paderborn, Germany.

A little bit about the saint (and damned little is all you'll get): He was born in (wait for it)...Gaul...in 348. No word on whether he knew Asterix. He befriended St. Martin of Tours, built some churches, and then died in 396.

Apparently, his ties to the gall bladder aren't just because he was born in Gaul. No, in between building churches across mostly non-Catholic Europe (this was around the time that Constantine had his vision of a cross in the clouds, thus rendering Christianity fashionable in the Empire), Liborius went around healing people complaining of "gravel and allied complaints". According to Father Eugene Carrella--who is an avid collector of Saint Cards--Liborius apparently helped heal Pope Clement XI of some gastric distress, thus earning the Saint both his venerability as well as patronage.

After he died, however, Liborius wasn't done. His remains were carted to Paderborn in Germany, with hopes that they'd help convert the Saxons to Christianity. I guess nothing convinces a heathen savage to convert like a femur upside the head--and not just any femur...a Holy Femur! And here the Spanish Inquisition thought the auto de fe was the best solution. Anyway, every year on July 23, the residents of Paderborn throw a big celebration in honor of Liborius, which I imagine includes lots and lots of beer, laderhausen, and countless women dressed like St. Pauli girl. My lustful undertones are clouding the true point of this post, and I'd apologize if the vision of hundreds of busty blondes in serving wench regalia wasn't such a pleasant image to scrawl across my imagination. Anyway, during the festival, the bones of St. Liborius are trotted out for all to see and transported three days later (after everyone has sobered up, I presume) to the town hall in Paderborn.

According to legend, Librorius' bones were stolen during the Thirty Years War, which outraged the locals, and so they went to recover the stolen saintly artifacts. Whilst out reclaiming what was rightly theirs...sort of...the pilgrims were accompanied by a peacock both on the initial foray and later for their triumphant return. Thusly, Liborius came to be symbolized not just by tiny stones that hurt like a bitch when they get caught in your bile duct, but also the beautiful peacock.

So, there you have it, the life and times of St. Liborius, who seems like he had a whole lot more fun after he died.

New Year's Resolutions

First off, let me wish you all (you know, both of you) a Happy New Year. I hope 2007 is as great a year as it can be (especially for half of you...you know which half I'm talking about).

Second off, a belated Merry Christmas! I was beset by in-laws and wrapping (Oh, the wrapping!), so I didn't post much. Or at all. I am happy to report that Santa Claus was very good to me, despite me being a naughty boy and all. I figured the removal of a cantankerous semi-vital organ was gift enough (you know, the gift to eat whatever I want, the gift of shitting like a goose, the gift of not waking up in the middle of the night feeling like Azrael has just buried his flaming sword through my chest...). However, I got some absolutely splendid presents, including moose moccasins, made of real moose. They're very warm.

Thirdly, a belated Happy Channukah to anyone who might stumble on this who is of the Jewish faith. I have much respect for the Chosen people (despite laughing uproariously at several anti-semetic Monty Python skits...see the "naughty boy" part above), and so I wanted to be sure that they are well-represented on my blog.

Now, onto the important stuff: My New Year's Resolution

I could be a cop-out and say "I resolve to lose weight". I was planning on that, anyway. I want Dr. Clowse to be very happy with me in April when I go to visit him. I don't like disappointing people, especially people who might be useful to me later in life (you know, by writing prescriptions for things that will keep me alive). Plus, you know, healthiness and all. I figure if my fat ass can get up off the couch (or out of the chair) and do something, this will be a shot of inspiration for my children to also not get into the corpulent state in which I find myself.

Actually, seeing some of the people from around here at the local Mc Donald's yesterday, I don't feel so bad about my size. I'm large. That I'll admit. I could stand to shed some excess weight. I am, in no way, approaching Huttian proportions yet, which is good because the repulsor-sled technology is a little lacking in this sector of the galaxy.

No, I'm shooting high on this one. My resolution is to finish The Boar War and submit it for publishing and/or agent representation. In addition, I resolve to streamline and finish King of Shadows (the bastard child of King of Thistles) and prepare that for publication, as well. Mostly this will involve the streamlining of the story. There are a few odds-and-ends I need and want to insert into the new story. I have a half-dozen characters laying around that got excised out of the old story who could play important roles later on in the whole of the story. In fact, they were going to be there, but mostly just mentioned. Now they're going to be...not stars, per se, but something a little less. Definitely in the roll-players-slash-supporting cast category for most of these ladies and gentlemen. It's not going affect that story in any great capacity; it's just going to make it more complete in my viewpoint. Whenever I get picky like this, I always remember that Tolkien kept revising the Lord of the Rings until the moment he died. In fact, he's probably sitting at a big table in the sky with C.S. Lewis murmuring something about he regretted making most of the elves out to be incredible pusses.

This might seem like a cop-out, itself, as I've been working on this since last summer. However, setting myself up a real reason to finish it (you know, a real reason, like a phony New Year's Resolution...everyone always keeps theirs, right?) should help me to finish it. I dream about it everyday while standing in front of my hood, but at night I come home and am most times too exhausted to write. No more. Mental fortitude starts one block at a time. Er, something like that.

(By the way, my resolution last year: to get my gall bladder removed. Hopefully, the follow-up tales of keeping this year's resolution won't be so...graphic...and poop-smeared).

Oh yeah, and I'm going to lose weight.

The Ordeal, Part V: Endgame

I originally thought four editions would wrap this tale up. And, it should have. Not much happened on the final day. I sat for an interminibly long time in my hospital room. My wife sat with me, and we waited and waited for that final bit of paperwork to be processed. I was visited fairly early on by Dr. Pickett. She just wanted to make sure that nothing had burst open during the night and that my wounds were, more or less, healing (barring a mutant healing factor (and the handy admantium skeleton that seems to come with it), I wasn't going to actually have been healed too much, but she just wanted to make sure that nothing had torn open and to tell me about cleaning them and such). I was very pleased with Dr. Pickett. I would recommend her to anyone.

I finally got the heart monitor off (no thanks to Kim) and pulled the patches off where the electrodes had been attached (once again, no thanks to Kim) and pulled the oxygen tubes out of my nostrils. Sexy images, I'm certain.

Finally, another older nurse came in to start making me less like a cyborg and more like a real, human boy! The long, arduous task of pulling me away from my machines and IVs had already begun. Kim actually came in and shut me off earlier in the morning. This lady, Judy I want to say, came along and began pulling needles out of my flesh. The one in the hand up around my first knuckle on my right hand, not so bad. The long one buried in the vein in my left wrist? Hellish. And fortunately, that one bled when I decided my arm had become numb and couldn't be held up in the air any longer. I'm not sure about my fear of needles anymore. I might have finally overcome it, or it could be lying dormant within my psyche, ready to burst forth at any moment when a sharp piece of metal comes hurtling toward my flesh.

I digress. This is really the tale of the recovery, which was amazingly short, given that my abdomen had been pierced so many times. I finally got the discharge papers and, feeling a bit crotchety, demanded to be wheeled down to the front door. Alright, so it wasn't so much a demand as it was not a refusal to take the ride. My wife picked me up and we jaunted home where I could enjoy the healing aura of my own house. It was a lovely autumnal day, however, I was sore. Not sore enough to be popping medications like my doctor thought I should. In fact, the only times I felt sore at all were on days when I tried to force myself to recover too soon. I would do too much, and there would be the sort of...vacant...feeling in my side. It might have been my subconscious playing with me, but it really felt like...phantom organ pain, for the lack of a better term.

The worst part was sitting down in a chair. The muscles beneath my belly button did not like that so much. Getting out was fine because I could use my arms and shoulders and sort of push myself out of the chair. Laying down wasn't much more fun, and again, sitting up wasn't so bad. I could hurl my leg over the side of the bed and the momentum would ratchet me up into some semblance of a sitting position. As bad as this sounds, though, this only went on for about a week or so. My follow-up was scheduled for two weeks after the surgery (and I wasn't supposed to go back to work until Dr. Pickett gave the go ahead...*whistles innocently*).

After a week, I felt pretty good. The fatigue was mostly gone. I didn't NEED that nap in the middle of the afternoon like I had the first week. Which is good, because I was back at work. I could have gone back sooner, but EB games had a buy 2 used games get a third free, and so I took full advantage of that for a couple of days.

So, I've been recovered now for about two months. I finally flicked off some of the final scab material around my belly button. I didn't want to mess with the area where Dr. Pickett had, most wonderfully and blessedly, taken that hideous piece of flesh off my body that had lived at the edge of my belly button for thirty plus years. Imagine how THAT appealed to the ladies. "No, no, it won't bite. It'll just sit there and stare at you the whole time we're together. Pay it no mind. Sentient? No, not quite. Wait? Where are you going?"

Not that I dated a lot of girls that knew what the term "sentient" means.

Anyway. So, one thing that the gall bladder is good at is keeping around extra bile so that you can use it at the body's discretion whilst digesting your meal. Bile is used to help break down fats and oils and to help soften up proteins for further digestion. You can imagine, then, that if this little bag of fat-digesting sauce isn't in your abdomen anymore that you could run into some troubles, especially if you sit down and eat a whole tub of Crisco or something. This is the case. Meals that are really oily or fatty would require an extra squirt or two from the gall bladder to help process these oils. With the gall bladder gone, the liver still makes bile, but sometimes, it might not be enough. You can imagine what happens then when all that grease and such gets into your bowels? Right, it lubes them right up and everything just sort of...slides...on through.

Now, I'm a man who fully enjoys his morning, late afternoon and night time constitutionals. It's a peaceful time where it's just me and the wilds of the nearest sewage system. News that I might not be crapping solid ever again distressed me. However, once the pain meds wore off (oxycodone tends to harden the stool to the point of being something akin to granite...I assume the body pulls more water out of the waste stream in order to compensate for the metabolism of the drug...but that could just be my very limited view of pharmacokinetics working), I was blissfully and wonderfully solid. Until a few days ago.

Remember, eating a lot of fatty, greasy, proteiny food will, ahem, loosen the bowels. For this reason, I advise anyone who is missing a gall bladder to pace themselves while eating at the Brazilian steak house. Oh, sure, it might seem like a good idea to take two or three slabs of roast beef off that skewer when offered or to tell them to keep the lamb coming. While the food is delicious, let's just say forty minutes later, the lamb strikes its revenge.

A pain unlike any I had felt in my bowels for many a year struck. Fortunately, I have a sphincter with the tensile strength of steel and could keep things shut tight on that fateful ride back to work. A quick dash upstairs and I was literally sweating bullets. I hurried to the toilet where I unleashed a salvo straight from hell. In fact, Satan himself, who I assume is quite the alchemist, could not concoct such a violent, gut-wrenching, sulfurous stench if he tried. Fire and brimstone poured from my backside, and I could feel the water beneath me begining to smoke and boil. Fortunately for me, animal fat is one helluva lubricant, and as quickly as it began, it was over.

So, now I know, and knowing is half the battle (thanks, G.I.Joe). I consider this part a public service announcement. When at the Brazilian steakhouse, sit back for a bit after polishing off that last disgustingly large portion of lamb wrapped in bacon. Sip some coffee, enjoy a tart or two. And wait, because you know it's coming.

Just do yourself a favor, and don't wear light-colored pants.

The Ordeal, Part IV

Or, How I Got Four Holes in My Abdomen and Lived to Tell the Tale!

Thursday morning, I was in and out of sleep. I got up in the middle of the night having to piss badly, and, fortunately enough, my IV bag ran out. I rang the nurse and soon after the angelically beautiful Jamie arrived with a fresh bag of fluids just as I was laying myself back down in the bed after having whizzed. I had my glasses still on, which was a good thing since this was the last time I would see her.

I slept on and off throughout the rest of the night and then was awakened in the pre-dawn hours by my angelically-beautiful intern who came to talk to me about the surgery that would happen later that day. Since the guy I was originally scheduled to undergo the survery with was in Montana fishing (originally, I had scheduled for some time in late August but had to cancel), I would be operated on by Dr. Wilke. That was fine with me. I remember a couple of other people being in the room, most likely either trailing the intern or taking blood or my vitals. Everything was kind of a blur since I had not been sleeping well that night. The intern's take home message, though, was that today was the day. I would undergo surgery to get my gall bladder removed, but it wouldn't be until almost evening (I think the original time, after having been told that Friday was unacceptable, was around 5:00).

Morning finally came, and sadly, so did my nurse, Carolina. That meant that Lowell was dutifully servicing someone else. I was jealous, but I thought I could deal with nurse Carolina. She was, however, no Lowell, and definitely no Jamie.

The morning passed quietly. I finished my Bill Bryson book, my wife came and visited and I watched the news while she slept. I was very well-versed in the ways of the world that particular week; I was also very up-to-date on the weather around the country. The morning passed quietly until Dr. Wilke arrived, telling me that I would be moved up on the schedule and that I would get the surgery done that afternoon rather than that evening. Somewhere, I SHOULD have been excited, but that was still hours away. I was bedsore and tired and just wanting to get the thing over as soon as possible.

Midday passed and we moved on into the early afternoon. I turned to my All About Beer to entertain me, but it was such an uninspired issue that I sort of tossed it aside and watched the television for the remainder of the day. I felt like going to the peds' floor and stealing a playstation or an xbox or something, but instead I lounged about still, watching the time tick slowly away.

Carolina came in several times and took my vitals. I had good blood pressure and temperature and all. No fevers, nothing bad. I was very laid back. What the hell was I going to do? Riot? Instead, I just waited for the time to come when I would no longer have a gall bladder.

Around 12:30, a very large, very stout man came to my door. I think his name was Gary. Things were in kind of a rush, as I knew Gary was there to transport me to the OR. Since this was surgery, I knew that I would have to drop trou, and as I was preparing to do so, along came Carolina. Now, you'd think that when someone is about to go to the OR, you wouldn't need to take their vital signs as they have machines in the OR to do this. They also have nurses. Several of them. And they are competant. Unlike Carolina.

Since I was sitting up, my right arm was twisted away so she opted for my left. Now, Jamie, Lowell, Elizabeth and Jennifer all had NO problems whatsoever taking my blood pressure on my left bicep. It's not like I have rippling, tree-trunk arms, either (though I would like to think I'm not a stick-boy). In fact, in the several times Carolina had been in there that day pestering me, she had had no problems, either. Suddenly, though, I apparently grew a bicep like your average comic book hero and so, in the midst of me getting ready to go have an organ removed from my body, nurse Carolina straps the blood pressure sleeve around my left FOREARM. Uh...no. With the sudden adrenaline rush after being told "it's time" and the need to remove my pants (which is always a thrilling ordeal, for me at least) and the fact that the cuff was now in the WRONG POSITION, you'd think that it would sink through someone's thick skull that there was something wrong when my blood pressure read out at 530/247 or whatever the fuck inflated number it gave.

This is when I came closest to inflicting some bodily harm on someone (and it certainly wasn't Gary, who was big enough to bare-knuckle fight bears) as she asks, "Have you ever been diagnosed with high blood pressure?"

For one fleeting moment, I saw them cancelling the surgery because of this dunce's inability to use, oh, logic or the blood pressure machine or chewing gum. I hesitated, trying to control myself before I released a tirade of curse words that would leave her with jaw agape and speechless. Fortunately, my wife filled the void with, "Don't you think going into surgery might have something to do with that?"

Score one for the lovely readhead in the corner.

With Carolina summarily dismissed and Gary waiting impatiently, cracking his knuckles in anticipation of doling out his hourly ass-whooping, I dropped trou and dove onto the gurney, apparently giving the world a show of me private bits. This upset my wife, who tossed a blanket over my legs and lower midsection. I giggled like a little kid, because I'm just THAT mature.

One unpleasant side effect of going into surgery is that you have to take your glasses off and hand them to the nearest comely redhead. Fortunately, that was my wife. Unfortunately, the trip down to the OR was a series of light blurs and shadowy blurs and Gary rumbling instructions for people to get the hell out of his way or he'd eat their babies. True story.

At the entrance to the OR, I had to bid adieu to my wife, who promised that she would go and find something for her to eat. I had been on liquid diet the day before with nothing after midnight to eat or drink. I was mighty thirsty and parched, but as the doors swung back and forth behind my becovered feet, I wasn't thinking of food or drink for some reason. Naturally, I was thinking of the final installment of Harry Potter.

Okay, I threw that in there to see if anyone is still paying attention.

Upon arrival in the OR, I was granted my very own curtained partition. I was also greeted by a taller, grayer, sturdier man than Gary. I can't remember his name, so I'll call him Glen. Glen was the guy who would be making sure that I would not wake up during the course of the procedure. As I don't like pain and/or seeing instruments sticking out of my abdomen (despite my dreams of becoming a cyborg), I decided that Glen was two steps below a saint. That is, until he looked at my IV and decided that it was, and I quote, "something a 2nd grader would make."

Uh, and this was feeding me IV, antibiotics and other fluids for the past days.

I was also granted two different nurses. Well, one was a medical intern from Duke who was training to be an anasthesiologist. The other was Shirley, and I'm pretty sure Shirley could field dress any wound anywhere on the body. Had she been on the beaches of Normandy, we wouldn't have lost a single man. In fact, she would have kicked the ass of any German who got between her and the next man down. Shirley kicked ass. She was assigned the fixing of my IV. Shirley was wonderful. She patted the back of my hand as she drew forth a Viking war blade. Shirley was fantastic. She made a goofy face as she plunged it into my left wrist. Shirley was mad. As I felt cold steel sliding beneath my skin and into my veins, she said, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

I was afraid to respond in the negative. Clearly, I was working with a master of torture here.

The anasthesio...Duke student (who was cute, by the way, at least in a brunette-blur sort of way), came back and was telling me about what they would be doing for my surgery. It was a cocktail of gasses that I can't remember, but none of them was ozone, so I felt safe. Plus, Shirley was back, and in her hands was a bag of something. She hooked it up to my IV and then plugged it in. "They say you're low on magnesium," she reported. I looked at the bag. It was a magnesium sulfate solution.

"The finest dessicant in all the land!" I proclaimed loudly. I was the chemistry king in this little curtained partition, and it was time to hold court.

Shirley shot me what I interpretted as a funny look...or at least a blurry funny look. "I'm a chemist," I responded. "I use mag sulfate to pull the water out of stuff all the time. Stuff works like a charm!"

"I see," said the-blur-that-was-Shirley. "This might burn a little." She turned on my IV.

Fire shot up my arm. On the inside.

Did I mention this was a master of torture? I could imagine her saying "Dry that, tough guy" as she walked out of my partition.

I met my doctor shortly after that. A lovely woman...or at least, blurrily lovely. She was bubbly and effervescent, which is good for alka-seltzer, but I'm not too certain it's a good quality in someone who is about to remove a part of your anatomy. I guess it's better than saying, "Hi, I'm Doctor Pickett. I'll be removing your gall bladder today. Hope you don't die!"

I give Shirley and Dr. Pickett a bad rap up here, but they were both fantastic, despite Shirley's ability to inflict such awful, excrutiating pain with laser-precision. She was good, and when you're going into surgery, you want someone who is good, rather than someone that...well...is Carolina. Dr. Pickett was also awesome. She actually asked me if it was alright with me if she could remove my gall bladder (paraphrasing). I think I responded with "Sure. I mean, I'm going to be unconscious, anyway."

The good doctor and I had an instant rapport.

Not much happened while I waited my dessicant...er...magnesium infusion. The an...Duke student came back a few times and we chatted idly while she made me remember that I was REALLY naked under that blanket. Not that anything bad happened or that I was embarassed, but your mind tends to wander shortly after being impaled upon a yard-long needle and shot full of liquid fire.

Finally, the time came and Shirley cleared the way before me as I was wheeled into the OR. No one second-guessed her. She was, after all, the hospital's own expert on torture.

I was wheeled into a bright, white room that felt antiseptic from the moment my covered feet knocked the door open. That, too, was reassuring. I'd hate to be wheeled into somewhere, moments from having my body rent assunder, thinking I was rolling in human sewage. Or any sewage. I'm not particular. Shit and disease is better off outside of my body.

More nurses descended on me. I don't remember their names, but I do remember them hooking me up to a respirator to pump "pure oxygen" to me. Glen was there, too. He was running around preparing me for the knock out. I got hooked up to more IVs. I got moved to the operating table. I got my cover removed. I got cold. And then, my eyelids began to get droopy. In a moment of clarity (because for some stupid-ass reason, I decided to fight the anasthesia all the way), I yelled out, "Hey, this isn't oxygen anymore, is it???" I saw through Glen's clever ruse. "Oh, yes, it is," assured the nurse. But I saw through them. Actually, I think my anasthesia was coming through my IV, but my mind, still like a steel trap, had latched onto the notion that they were knocking me via the air being piped down my throat. I began to slip off into a blissful sleep when suddenly my eyes snapped open.

"Oh my God!" I said, "I can't believe I didn't do this!"

"What?" the nurse asked, somewhat panicked.

"Luke...I am your father!" I offered up. However, that was the very LAST thing I remembered. So, I'm sure it came out like "Looyamurrrfavvvvvvvvvvvuhhhhhhhh"*drool*

I can't tell you about this part. I was asleep for it. And, since Glen did his job well, I don't remember even the juicy middle parts. So, I'll summarize for those of you who don't know what is involved in a gall-bladder-removal.

A long incision (about an inch, maybe two) is done in the bottom of the belly button. Another one is done just to the right of the line down the middle of my body, just under the ribcage. This is where the offending bag of bile and stones is pulled out, eventually. Another smaller, T-shaped hole is made on my right flank, about a fist's width below my ribcage and a fourth T-shaped hole is made further down, kind of in that area where you get a pain if you've been running too much (as in, anything past five steps for me). The hole in the belly button is where they stick the air hose, inflating your abdominal cavity with CO2 like a balloon. Makes everything easier to manipulate. One of the T-shaped holes is where the camera and light source go in, and I'm not sure what the fourth one is for. Symmetry, I guess. The bigger hole just south of my sternum is where the green sac leaves my personage.

Now, one great thing about this is that the hepatic artery, the common bile duct, and the gall bladder duct are all in the same area. Hit the hepatic, I think I have five minutes to live, if I'm lucky, before I bleed to death. It's big as it feeds the liver, and the liver is pretty big. Hit the common bile duct, and the scar tissue will force the bile duct closed, I'll get sirrhossis and either need a liver transplant or die. So, as you can see, there is a bit of risk involved. Fortunately, Dr. Wilson (and apparently, Dr. Wilke, as well) are very competant and have this 45-minute policy. If they can't tease everything out in 45 minutes and begin the removal of the gall bladder from my liver, they go in the old-fashioned way, which is opening a six to eight-inch hole under my rib cage and start at the top and move down, cutting away the offending organ. As Dr. Pickett works with Dr. Wilke, she has the same policy. I was in good hands. Obviously, since I'm sitting here typing this out.

One FANTASTIC thing about the surgery is that they have to make an incision at the south end of my belly button, where, until two months ago, a very large, very nasty mole resided. This thing was like a rogue cocoa puff that had permanently attached itself to my flesh. It was embarassing, and it made it difficult to clean out the pit of Saarlacc, aka my belly button. So, when Dr. Pickett was scouting the area out, she noticed this horrible, egregious piece of my anatomy.

"Would you like me to remove this?"

Oh, Doctor. Would you marry me?

So, it's gone. I can go shirtless once more without the embarassment of that...thing...sticking out of my navel. Granted, there's the lily white flesh, predominant gut and man-boobs which keep me firmly ensconced within my cotton t-shirts, but, hey, at least it's only 3 things instead of 4. Of course...now I have scars.

I woke up, somwhere. In recovery. My lovely wife was there. My lovely Duke student was there, I think. Again, I was a touch groggy. However, I didn't hurt as much as I thought I would. In fact, considering I had just had my gall bladder removed, I felt pretty damned good. I was returned to my room, and my wife hung out for a while, making sure I was okay. Soon enough, however, I had to piss like the proverbial racehorse. I thought I would wait around until Carolina came back to check my vitals. However, there came a time when I couldn't wait any longer. The reason why I was staying in my bed was because I was hooked to an oxygen machine AND I had these cuffs on my calves that would inflate from time to time to help prevent CVT from forming. They were annoying as fuck, and so the sooner I could get them off me the better. I was made to promise to walk around some that evening and night. But, all I wanted was to pee. Finally, my wife released me from these tortuous devices while Carolina dicked around with stuff at the end of my bed. I ran hobbled to the bathroom. It was sweet bliss.

My wife left. Carolina was dismissed. I got Kim for a nurse. Kim was no Jamie. In fact, Kim was a guy. He did explain to me why I was on oxygen (because most people, being incredible pussies, don't breathe deeply enough to fully oxygenate their blood after this surgery. However, not being a salsa-dancing pansy, I breathed fully and deeply, so I could have dropped the oxygen. My blood was at a 98% saturation, anyway, but I decided to play by the rules). He also brought me Sierra Mist, which tasted like nectar straight from the cask atop Olympus. I still had to eat soft, liquid food. I also had a heart monitor hooked up to me, to make sure I still lived and all. During the night, I had to get up and piss out my Sierra Mist, so I got up, went wee, and came back to bed. Still mostly pain free. Suddenly, seconds later Kim burst into the room.

"Mr. Jenks, we've detected an unusual spike in your heart rate. Are you okay?"

It started out cool. I thought maybe he had detected a latent mutant ability, a twin growing inside my abdomen, porn on channel 67. But no, just abnormal heart rate.

"Yeah, I don't know why it would do--oh, I just got up and went to the John. You might want to empty the piss bucket."

And so went my relationship with Kim.

I had a very hard time falling back asleep. Pure oxygen seems to do something to your brain. Colors seem brighter and the voices inside your head are more vocal. I lay there for a long time pondering my next move. I really wanted to go to sleep, but with the heart rate monitor on me, I couldn't perform my surefire trick for instant sleep. So, instead, I lay there dreaming while awake, the patterns of the capillaries in my eyes taking on shapes as they pulsed with my lifeblood, dancing before me and moving on. It was the most impressive high I've ever experienced, aside from the contact buzz I picked up at my first R.E.M. concert.

I finally fell asleep and was awakened only once when Kim came to take my blood pressure--correctly--and finally in the morning when a doctor came and told me that I would soon be cleared to go home.

Freedom loomed.

The Ordeal, Part III

It's a beautiful thing, waking up and finding two attractive ladies at your beck and call. Well, three if you count my wife. Except she's less at my beck and call, even in my semi-delirious state. In fact, I'd have to be fully delirious to try that beck and call horseshit with her.

But, I digress. Two women, huddled around the entrance to my cubby hole, were waiting to take me down to the ambulance and return me to my temporary prison at the hospital. Very gently (though there was NO pain at all at this point in time) they loaded me onto a fresh gurney and then took me downstairs to the ambulance. My memories of this transfer are sketchy, at best, since I was still coming out of the anaesthesia I had endured while they moved the stone out of my bile duct. I don't remember getting into the ambulance, I was just suddenly there, cozy, with a blanket tucked around my precious little body to protect it from the cold and the rain. I do remember feeling great, that the procedure had been done and my guts were no long afire with agony. I also remember getting down from my bed and hopping up onto the gurney, all spry and such. It impressed the ladies who were operating the ambulance. Again, I don't remember their names, but I do remember they both had dark hair and both were very, very nice. The lady in the back tried to chat me up, but I am pretty certain that my normal witty banter was more along the lines of Mushmouth's from Fat Albert. My wife hopped in shotgun and chatted up the driver, and God bless the driver, she took the quickest, most non-bumpy route back to the hospital. And the gurney didn't collapse. Bless you both, ladies. I also remember the lady in the back being concerned about me falling asleep and trying to keep the others quiet a bit, and me trying to tell her that it was alright, I was awake.

This was a very interesting feeling. It was like when you're wearing a swimming mask, and you're underwater on your back and staring up through the surface of the water in the pool. You get a very, very clear image of the world outside the pool, but the image is moving back and forth as the light is bent by the water as the surface waves move back and forth. Outside of the image directly in front of you, everything just sort of trails off into a blue-gray haze of confusing movement and indecipherable shadows. And then imagine a face appears above you, and you want to talk to them, but you speak and the words come out of your mouth but are swallowed by the water surrounding your body and carried off somewhere else, never to be heard again. That's kind of what it is like waking up from whatever glorious drugs they had sent through my body. That's what the ride back from Duke was like.

We arrived at the hospital relatively quickly, and they ladies took me upstairs to my chamber...er...room. On the way, we passed my nurse, Lowell, a very pleasant fellow whom I liked very much. He was friendly and nice, as is to be expected in the nursing profession, but he was also (mostly) attentive. I said hello to Lowell, excitedly, apparently, which took him aback, apparently. And then we got in the elevators.

This is where the wheels came off.

Remember, I hadn't had anything to eat since Sunday around 8:00 pm. This was Tuesday, around 4:30 or 5:00. Do the math (it's about 45 hours without food, for your arithmetic-challenged folk), and you can see that it's been a while since real sustenance has passed my lips. Top this with having just been put under anaesthesia and pain medicine, and having something shoved down my throat to retrieve a stone which was pressing on my pancreas. I think you can see where this is going. The icing on this nausea cake, evidently, was the motion of the elevator whooshing me up to the fourth floor. Like all good icing, my face lost its color and turned a very, very pale white. Whiter than normal for me. I don't even think lily white could describe it. It was probably more like Oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-bring-it-up-NOW! white.

The two ladies brought me to my room and helped me into my bed. I'm fairly certain it's not in their job description, but they helped cover me up, gave me pillows, propped me up, all that good stuff. And then the one who had been in the back with me asked if I needed anything.

"Trashcan," I responded, diving for the can at my side. She also reached for it, trying to help me as best she could.

Now, knowing that most people can't really take the sight of someone else puking, I buried my face and head as deeply into the trashcan as I could to try and save any others close by from enduring the gut-wrenching process that is involved when I vomit. I don't just vomit, usually. I projectile vomit, Mr. Creosote-style. I also have such violent stomach contractions that it's like I'm disgorging my entire soul, not just the remains of my Italian sandwich, which arrived at the table twenty minutes after everyone else's food.

Only problem is, my stomach was empty. 45-hours worth of empty. Fortunately, I was having gall bladder issues, which meant I did have a little something something to bring up: bile. Foul-smelling, lurid green, acrid, been-laying-in-my-gut for two days bile.

As luck would have it, this passed quickly. I do remember a look of pity from the lady who had helped me. Apparently, she was one of those strong-stomach type folks, and she looked terribly empathetic as she asked if there was anything else she could do for me. Having cast out the demons, I felt remarkably better. My wife was quick on the trigger, though, and called for the nurse. However, this was around 5:00, when most decent, non-ERCP-having-people eat, and Lowell was probably grabbing a quick bite before he had to come back and check my IVs and such.

The ambulance ladies, having done all they could, wished me well. My wife stuck around until Lowell finally came in. The pain meds and knock-out juice were taking their toll again on me, and I was in and out of sleep. I urged my wife to go and meet her mom and the kids for dinner, that I would be fine now that I was in Lowell's able care. She left, and I slipped in and out of sleep.

I awoke when a gentleman came in and asked if I was going to eat my dinner. I was stunned to hear these words. I was more surprised to find a tray had been delivered while I dozed. I vaguely remember interacting with someone originally. It might have been that same man. I don't know. I didn't care. There was food before me. I chased him off and sat up, woozily, to find a lovely liquid dinner before me. Chicken broth, which I had allowed to get luke warm, green jello, a melted popsicle, some grape juice and some ice tea. Roast quail basted in blackberry sauce wouldn't have tasted as good. It would have been more filling, but my parched throat and shrunken stomach quickly welcomed everything I could get. The napkin is lucky to have escaped. As soon as I had finished, I wanted more. I even pondered drinking the tea for a moment before deciding that I wasn't quite that desperate. A little while later, the man came back and took my tray. I wanted to ask him for more, but instead I just turned on Dirty Jobs. I had seen it before, but I didn't care. I was awake now, and most of my wits had been found in the bottom of that bowl of broth.

Jamie returned that night. Her soft skin, blonde hair and warm touch while listening to my breathing returned as well. She would come and check on me almost hourly. Every time she would leave, she would ask, "Can I get you anything?"

"Yes, anything. Just come back topless."

Okay, I didn't say this, but I thought it. I had been cooped up too long. Jamie did explain that I had to wait at least 24 hours before I could have the gall bladder surgery. My doctor/intern arrived at some point during the night, most likely in the wee hours of the morning, to tell me that it would not be until Friday before I could get the accursed organ removed. She then said they would try to move me up, if at all possible. I knew the schedule might be tight, but I held out hope. My wife, however, took a slightly more aggresive route as she hoped to have me home by Friday (which was our anniversary, for trivia's sake).

Tuesday night, while seeking to stimulate my mind (not that Mike Rowe and a series of filthy events didn't do the job), I picked up a copy of the Bill Bryson book my wife had bought for me. It was the perfect sort of travel essay, where he drove around the country looking for the perfect small town in America. At first, the story was a little slow and a little dry, but I kept on, and quickly I was consuming whole chapters without knowing any time had passed. He's been reviewed and raved about in countless media outlets. This will not be one of them. Suffice it to say, I really enjoyed his writing. It was engaging and clever and funny all at once, and the pictures he painted with the words gave my imagination much to work with and little to doubt. Katie, in case you ever read this, you're right, I do have a similar writing style. I guess I should be honored to be compared to him. Thank you.

This was how most of Wednesday passed. I woke up, had some more broth and jello and juice, washed up, read Bill Bryson, had some more broth and jello and juice, read more Bill Bryson, had some more broth and jello and juice and read more Bill Bryson. At times, I would set him down, try to watch some televsion, or I would flip through my latest All About Beer magazine, or I would stare blankly out the window. Wednesday wore on, boring, with Lowell showing up every so often to make sure I was alright, or to fight my IV machine, or to bring me more antibiotics.

Finally, Wednesday evening arrived, and with it came Jamie once more. And with Jamie came even greater news: My surgery had been moved up to Thursday. As it stood, it would be late Thursday, but it was Thursday nonetheless. Ka-loo, ka-lay. Now, if only the news had been delivered topless...

The Ordeal, Part II

In case you've never had a gall bladder attack, you might not know some of the more fun symptoms. I've told you of the burning and the pain. Well, one thing is, there's all that bile spewing forth out of your gall bladder, and it has to go somewhere. The most convenient place for it to go, since it's a liquid and all, is out through the kidneys and the urinary tract. Now, I'm a person who doesn't mind tossing a good whiz. However, I always loathed and feared the after-effects of a gall stone attack, mostly because of the urine.

For one, it turns a dark orange color. Almost an amber color. It's seriously disgusting. The nice thing is, it doesn't burn, which is amazing considering how much acidic crap is in bile (chololithoic acid is one of them). I mean, there's a little burn, but nothing like pissing shortly after rubbing one out. Now THERE is a burn.

The worst part, though, is the odor. It's this intense urine stink with an added bilious stench. Sorry, I can't think of anything else to describe it. It's the same stink as that shit that comes up the back of your throat when you throw up in your mouth. And it hangs in the air like the haze from a cheap cigar. Oh, it feels better to be out than in. But the stink and the disgusting color are enough to make you gag (if the stone pressing on your pancreas isn't enough, as is).

So, for this reason, they like to take a urine sample and test it for the liver and gall bladder enzymes. Naturally, almost comedically, sweet Jennifer came bearing the urine sample cup moments after I had emptied my bladder and flushed away the evidence of my urinary biliary drainage. Not only did she bring a little cup for a sample, she also brought a jug for me to fill up at my convenience. Uh...

Now, here's the tricksy part. Being that I had a stone lodged in ye olde common bile duct(e), they were trying to figure out what to do with me. Nice guys that they are, they just left it sit there. Something about shredding my insides and the deleterious affects this would have on my health. They also planned on having to go in and fish it out. This is a surgical procedure, and you know the drill for procedures: no food or drink prior to.

So, the remainder of Monday was spent in a foodless, waterless wasteland of morphine, sweat and bile. I stayed hydrated thanks to my IV, but being as I slept--hard--whenever I got my morphine refreshed, I developed a lovely pellicle on the inside of my mouth. It would literally take me five minutes of working my tongue against the roof of my mouth for my saliva glands to moisten the inside of my oral cavity. Worse was the sheets of dried mucous that hung on the inside of my mouth, which I would have to work out of place with my tongue and spit as I could. However, dried mucous is a wonderful food substitute, in case you ever need such a thing.

For most of the rest of Monday, I was in and out of sleep. That night, however, I was visited by an angel.

I've heard something about how the guys in the Vietnam war would go in for treatment for wounds and such and they would fall in love with the person giving them their care. I'm sure there's a name for this syndrome, but I don't know it and can't be bothered to look it up. Anyway, place me in that category, all you amateur psychologists out there who read this (all five people).

Her name was Jamie, and she bore an UNCANNY resemblance to this girl I knew in high school named Jamie. She had beautiful brown/green eyes, soft skin, a pleasant voice, blonde hair and a frame that was ample in all the right places. Most of all, she was tender and kind when prodding my midsection to see how "tender" and "sensitive" I was to the touch. She would come and check on me to see if I needed anything. She would ask if I was too cold or too hot or if I needed any pain medication. Sure, this might have been her job, but dammit, I was convinced that she did it because she wanted me.

I mean, what woman WOULDN'T want a man 5 to 6 years older, unshaven, unkempt, overweight, sweaty, with IV lines running out of his arms, with foul mucous-covered breath and the stench of bile clinging to him no matter HOW many times I cleaned myself after peeing? It was inconceivable that she WOULDN'T want me, right? Perhaps it was just the morphine talking. But she was very nice.

I rested through most of the night, and toward morning I was visited by my second angel. At least, I think so. An intern came in to tell me what awaited me later that Tuesday. She was gorgeous, or so my morphine-sodden brain told me. She also bore the good news that all angels bring.

I found out that I was to undergo an ERCP, which is an acronym for something I don't remember altogether. Emergency Removal of Choleolithic Pain is something I came up with. Essentially, it's a procedure where they send a scope down my throat (so the E stands for endoscopic), through my stomach, and into my intestines to find the end of my common bile duct from there they would extract my nefarious little stony friend. Unfortunately, the stone was allowed to drift off into the void and pass out through my pooper. I wouldn't get to keep it. Damn. However, the great part was that they would, of course, retrieve their scope. Which means that it would have to come back out through my mouth. After it had been in my intestines. Lovely.

The other fantastic news was that I wouldn't be staying in the hospital for this one. I was headed over to Duke for this fantastic procedure. I spent the morning getting clean and prepped for my trip and procedure. But still not eating. If you're keeping track, we're nearing something along the lines of 42 hours between meals, or eating anything (I had a brownie around 8:00 pm on Sunday). Around 1:30, two ambulance drivers came to pick me up. They were nice young ladies, but the stretcher (I'm guessing it's a general-issue) wasn't quite long enough for me. And, let's face it. I'm a big man. So, they dragged me downstairs, and I felt bad because my shoes were hanging over the end of the gurnee and popping the cuter redhead in the bottom (so I felt bad, but not guilty...heh heh heh). Loading me into the ambulance was just as fun. Finally, we were away, and the ride was...less than pleasant. Especially since my morphine was wearing off and ever bump and bruise could be felt in my midsection, where that happy little stone remained lodged tightly. It was even better when the stretcher collapsed under my impressive weight (my upper torso, at that...not even the bulk of me). It shot back to 180 degrees, chipping my left incisor in doing so. Not pleasant nor fun.

The ride over was long and wending, but we arrived at Duke and I must say, their "Student Health Center" put anything I saw at St. Joe or Notre Dame to shame. Hell, put both of them together and they didn't hold a candle to this joint. I guess that's what happens when you've got a research hospital tied in with your health care system. Huh. Who knew?

After long waits to get into the rooms where the procedure would be done, I made it into my little bay where I talked withe nurses who would be helping out with the ERCP. And then the good news came down: no pants or underwear.

This is when I learned that people without reservations and inhibitions should probably have them. I'm a fairly free person when it comes to being nude and having others see me. I don't care. Especially in the medical profession. I figure ever doctor has seen a dead dick. My living one won't shock them. Oh no! A penis! Gah! However, this news horrified my wife. She ran around making sure my gown was tucked in tightly around my thighs and then pulling blankets up so that the passing nurses (who I am also sure have seen penises before, as well as asses) wouldn't see. Oh well. The big problem was the Carol Channing clone in the bay next to me who went running around in all her shrunken, wrinkly glory back and forth in front of my bay. Like I said. People without inhibitions should probably get some. Soon.

After a lengthy wait (filled with choleolithic pain), I made it into the procedure room. I don't think it's properly called an operating room, but that's where I went. Low lighting, plenty of torturous machines filling the space. All very cool. I went into the procedure room. My wife, curse her, went to the waiting room with a stop at the cafeteria for something to eat along the way.

In the room were two nurses and two doctors. The doctors left to get cleaned and the nurses started prepping me. The odd thing about this was that I would be on my stomach for the procedure. I'm guessing it's so that I wouldn't gag and throw up and choke on it and die, a la Poe (or pretty much any gutter drunk). So, I had to roll over onto my stomach when I got to the operating table. Of course, my wife wasn't here to cover me up. As I was rolling, I had an oxygen tube or something wrap around my legs or something, so I adjusted and handed it to my nurse.

"I'm pretty sure you don't want this lassoing me down, or at least I think you don't," I said.

One of them laughed (I think her name was Heidi) and said "You don't want to be tied down by two blondes?"

"Well, my wife wouldn't approve. However, I'll be back tomorrow for the same procedure, ladies," I responded.

And that was the last thing I remember.

Sometime during the procedure, my IV moved from my right arm to my right hand, just outside my index finger knuckle. Also, there was a sore spot on the back of my throat where the tube to aid in the swallowing of the probe had brushed my tender skin. However, it was a successful procedure, and the 8 mm stone stuck in my bile duct fell into my lower GI tract and, presumably, was passed a couple of days later.

I woke up in my bay again, with pants and shoes and socks on. Apparently, Heidi had accompanied me out there. Also, apparently, some small slice of lucidity also accompanied me. While my wife was helping me into my underwear, my body, having just been "under" for an hour and a half, was slightly...unresponsive. My wife apparently looked up and said "help me get your underwear on." to which I replied "Underwear is highly overrated."

Again. Those who have no inhibitions, should find some...

The Ordeal, Part I

This is a tale so grand that it needs to be told in four parts. Mostly because it was four days long, and each day requires its own story. And if you don't like it, eff off.

Where I have been for the past week and a half, or so.

It all started two Sundays ago, very early in the morning. I woke up with that familiar pain in the gut around 2:30 in the morning. Great, I thought, here we go again. But, it passed in a couple of hours and I then thought, Whew. Done! However, five hours later, it hit again. And then again. And again. And again. And then my wife came home. And I went out to tutor. And it hit again. And then later that night during the bliss that was the final Venture Brothers of the season, it hit again. But, each of these were small and, while they hurt, they were gone in about an hour to an hour and a half.

Then 2:30 in the morning rolled around again. And it hit again. And this one didn't go away. I went downstairs to my typical ride-this-gall-stone-pain-out port (aka my easy chair) to watch the repeats of Adult Swim. God, the Venture Brothers kick ass. "Dude, the guy from Labyrinth just turned into a bird and flew away!" Trust me. Go watch it.

Anyway, I drifted in and out of sleep for a while until, and I'm not sure I didn't hear a heart-wrenching Ka-Thunk, the stone stopped moving. Oh, the pain. Oh, the nausea. It was bad enough, it brought tears to my eye.

There. I admit it. I cried. But they were involuntary reactions. I would have done it in my garage with my table saw spinning if I had either a garage or a table saw.

I should have seen it coming, too. Eric Gordon said he was going to sign with IU. Indiana beat Iowa. I found out Final Fantasy XII is coming to PS2 and not just PS3, like I assumed. And, the best part of all, I took my kids out for breakfast on Saturday and then we went to the museum in Raleigh and had a good time. A great time. So, I should have seen this shit coming. But, I didn't. And, I paid for my good time out with my little family in little, calcareous form.

After four hours of gut-wrenching pain, I finally had had enough. I staggered up the stairs like a hero who had just taken a shot in the gut and was clinging to the place where the bullet entered, streaming blood behind him. I collapsed onto my side of the bed and my wife said, "Oh God, we need to go, don't we?" I think I offered a throaty, raspy affirmative. Moments later, calls had been made, bags had been packed, and we were sailing down Duke Street toward the hospital and the warm glow of the ER where I held Madeleine's hand as I staggered toward the entrance like some brain-gorged zombie moving toward my destiny. I made it to be checked in, and immediately got sent toward a bed. My nurse, a lovely young woman whose name I no longer remember, had had her gall bladder removed, and on the way back, she was telling me how wonderful her life was after having it taken out. Though she couldn't offer me strong pain medication, she was very nice in telling me that soon my issues would be over. I, of course, wanted to ask her about the after effects of the surgery. However, for some reason, on about an hour's worth of sleep, I couldn't ask this pretty young nurse about horrible diarrhea 30 minutes after she ate. So, I left it alone.

God bless the fine ladies in the ER, too, for not stabbing me with needles seven or eight times just to get an IV line in. The last time I went, the poor guy had to stab me three times until finally he struck Texas tea. Fortunately, Christa (or Christina) found it on my right arm with one shot, Jed Clampett style. I got a shot of a mild pain-killer (torrinol, I think?) and then I was off to imaging for my liver and gall system.

This was where the fun began. Again, I don't remember the doctor's name, but she looked like my friend Roy's ex-wife Yvette. For a second, in my hour's worth of sleep state of mind as well as the pain and mild painkillers pumping through me, I thought it was Yvette, and then she wouldn't treat me because, you know, I was his friend and all. But, it wasn't. Her assistant's name was Auburn, which I thought was kind of cool. Except she had pale blonde hair. However, I did vow to steal her name for a character in a book. However, they were fun. Mostly, because they didn't know I'm Mr. Chemistry Useless Facts.

So, the main doctor starts to tell me that they're going to inject me with a radioactive slurry that will pretty much immediately go to my liver and they can take an image of my liver and see if anything is moving or whatnot, since if my bile ducts are unblocked, my liver should make bile and spit it into my gall bladder and my bile ducts. If they're blocked, there shouldn't be too much going on. This, of course, excites me. Delirious with pain and giddy with gamma-ray emitting medical testing, I start asking questions.

"What isotope are we working with here?"

"Technetium."

Oh, Doctor. You had me right there.

"Technetium!" I respond, with the wide-eyed giddiness of a child who has just made the first discovery that, yes, indeed, Santa Claus had been there the night before.

"Yes...uh...is there a problem?"

"Oh no. Technetium. Element 43. The first man-made element! Of course, it's found naturally in uranium ores, but still, the very first synthetic element!"

At this point, the two doctors exchange a look. I wink at Auburn.

"I have a master's degree in chemistry." At that point, we all shared a laugh.

"What's the half life?"

"About six hours," the doctor responded.

"Oh, so I'll be a gamma-emitter for 36 hours!"

I'm quite certain they haven't had anyone like me in there before.

(Incidentally, I went and looked up which isotope I had in me, and it was 99mTc, the m being a metastable isotope that's fairly common for this kind of test. Still, being the chem dork that I am, it still thrilled me to be "working with" technetium, and I am SO checking it off my list of elements now).

The doctor then went on and described the remainder of the test and what it would entail. I listened and nodded, pretty much figuring it out on my own, but after I had just started singing the praises of technetium to her and Auburn, I figured it was time for some normalcy. Then they prepared the syringe, which was encased in a big-ass steel/lead jacket. Oh, it was cool. When they shot it into my IV, I felt a little tingle and some cold, but nothing much else. No super powers came over me (damn) and no Hulkian rage (or no moreso than normal) and no X-ray vision (again, damn). However, I got that wide-eyed giddy look again.

"So...now I'm hot, huh?" Both of them laughed at this one and said, "Yes." This made me happy, both from an eg0-stroking as well as a chemistry joking sort of way.

I was then pushed under this big detector thing and I waited while the test ran its course. I dozed some. I recited the periodic table in my head. I thought about what type of character my Auburn would be. And then I thought about Auburn, Indiana and hot Sarah DePew, who was from Auburn (insert drooling Homer picture here), and then I thought about what a whiney bitch Tommy Tuberville is. And then the test was done. And, basically, my liver said, "Uh-uh...I'm not moving anything else down the line. It hurts us, with its nasty bright eyes and its rope from the Elves." Yes, my liver is Gollum.

So, the bad news. I was stuck for a while, mostly because I had a stone stuck in my common bile duct. Apparenly, it was pushing on my pancreas, which is why I felt like vomiting constantly. Who knew that my sweetbread was that sensitive to a stone the size of a cobble pressing on it from the inside? Not me. However...the more you know...

The good news, though, was that I could now get REAL pain medicine. Oh yeah. I was riding the morphine train. I got on that alkaloid chugga chugga choo-choo before leaving the ER. Unfortunately...I was also a training monkey in the ER. AND, they wanted more blood samples from me (apparently my first offering was too hemolytic...bah!). So, I had to endure two more pokes...which...compared with later in the week, was nothing. So, I got to teach the students all sorts of good things about gall bladder pain and issues as well as get them all some good practice on how to draw out blood from someone with deeply buried veins. Damn my genetics.

But, it didn't matter. I was riding high on morphine. I climbed into my wheel chair and they pushed me up to my room and I climbed into my bed and then I got that nice warm feeling in the middle of my thighs. Oh, glorious sleep, you could not be far off. And you weren't. Narcotics get their names for a reason. It was the first time in about eleven hours that my midsection didn't feel as if it was on fire; however, a new wave of nausea rolled over me. Fortunately, they had drugs to combat that.

Fortunately, my mother-in-law was in Atlanta and she came to the rescue. While I sometimes complain, I really appreciated her dropping everything and delaying her return to Indiana so that I could get my treatments. It was sometime around now that my mother-in-law came in and took care of my kids. Madeleine was very sweet and Thomas was just glad to go somewhere. My wife stuck around for a while, but I was committed to catching up on sleep and morphine, so she left later in the afternoon for some dinner. And I didn't care, because nurse Jennifer kept coming back every four hours to hit me with some more morphine. I liked seeing her smiling face, because it meant that the pain was going to go away for a while and that some really fucked-up dreams were on their way.

Unfortunately, I don't remember any of my dreams from the hospital. However, I do remember them being fantastical in every aspect of the term. So, I guess I'll have to leave you wanting to more. As it is, this concludes the first day of my time in the hospital as well as the first leg of the Ordeal.

Celerity and Alacrity...neither of which you will find at Durham Regional

Apparently, I went to a really lousy ER the other night. My wife heard it from a fellow in a wheelchair which comes to her store quite often that Durham Regional = bad, Duke = better. However, Durham Regional hasn't washed surgical instruments in hydraulic fluid nor have they mistakenly given a little girl the wrong heart and lungs for a transplant. At least they haven't done both in the past three years.

Anyway, many thanks to Mr. (soon to be Dr.) Will Shannon for his wishes for my speedy recovery. I'm hoping to have this thing taken out this week or next. I need to call my doctor and get his thoughts on this.

On to the updates! I've finished chapter six. I jumped ahead. Over the weekend, I wrote in chapters four, five, six and seven. I bounced back and forth (like Skulk on an acid trip) and expanded all four of them by several pages, but I couldn't get into any one chapter and form a "groove". So, I worked on all of them, switching whenever the mood or an idea grabbed me and I felt the need to do it. So, chapters one, two, three and six are done. I pushed the "original" six back to seven, which is my second human-based chapter (after one) and introduces the Sunderman House, which is about the only truly noble and honorable house left in the northern kingdom. We also get a peek at the regent...and he's a piece of work, let me tell you.

Anyway, here's the updated numbers:
Word count: 27770
Page count: 91

If you're going on those numbers, by what I'm shooting for, by the words, I'm about a third to a quarter done. By the pages, I'm about 1/6 to 1/7 done. but, in all honesty, the work is done when I say so. I need to pick out an epilogue (since I have a prologue...which is also done). I think it should probably be a "legend" like I started with. It should be short. It might focus on the fate of the Boar Clan, since they're the boggarts that start this whole mess.

Oh well. Random thoughts at the end there.

In case anyone else is keeping track...I also had beers number 350 and 351. Sam Adams White Ale and Butte Creek Winter Ale. The White was very tasty. I can see how these wheat ales are linked to summer. Fresh and crisp and spicy. Very good. Well done, Jim Koch!

A Series of Unfortunate Stones

Wonder where I've been in a while? Probably not, since there's only one other person who reads this other than me.

Anyway, I went to the ER last night with gall stone-related pain. At least I thought it was gall stones. The doctor on call seemed to think it was something else, since my blood didn't show any lipase or amylase level increases. My urine never turned that bright orange color, either. And she told me "gall stone attacks only last for 30 minutes or so, not eight hours." I thought "Maybe you think I should get the old gall bladder taken out, since I've had a sonogram telling me that it's full of stones?" But, in my morphine-induced state, I couldn't argue with her. I just went with her recommendation. But I will call the surgeon she recommended and perhaps get it taken out then.

So, that's why I've been gone. Been ill. Not just me, but the whole family has been sick. Lots of vomiting, lots of just bleh. So, I've gotten a little writing done, but not much.

However, the kids are gone. They left today, shortly after I came home from the hospital. They're going to Oklahoma for a couple of weeks and then we'll see them again in Indiana when we go up there at the end of the month. That will free my time in the evenings for more writing, so I'm hoping to take better advantage of the next couple of weeks while I am basically home alone for a while.

I have been working on chapter four, which kind of works the two main characters together. Redear and Jane are now travelling, and Skulk is keeping with them. The clansmoot, which is being held at Greatback's Grave, is in this chapter. And then next chapter is battle scene. Once I get past all the talking, it'll be action and the words will just fly onto the page/screen/whatever.

Word count: 24138
Page count: 79