Thursday, October 8, 2009

Why I Hate Hospitals

A few days ago, my friend's appendix ruptured. Sometimes in life, one must stop and ponder. Contemplate the great mysteries of life.

For example: why the heck are there ticking time bombs in our bellies waiting to burst upon us when we least expect it!!!

When one reflects that this particular organ is apparently an unnecessary part of survival, one must wonder if this is some type of cruel joke, or merely a vehicle for good organ explosion stories.

The worst part is that the nurses forgot to drip the antibiotics into her for several hours! The bag was there; it just wasn't hooked up to her.

Visiting her brought me back to my days of ruptured appendix.

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Dream music commence. Flashback begin.

I was at BYU, in my grammar final. I felt very ill. It was multiple choice, so I filled in ABACADABA for the rest of the test. Ended up with a B in the class.

Went on a date that I didn't want to go on considering I felt like Violet the blueberry on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (didn't want him to think I was lame and faking it). Spent most of the date trying to paint the bathroom with carrots to relieve the intense pressure.

Asked him to take me home. He took me on a drive instead. I slouched up against the door with my head down and my eyes closed. I then proceeded to listen to a lengthy one-way DTR. I said, "can we talk about this tomorrow?" Apparently we couldn't. He gave me a present which he had the pleasure of opening for me. About half an hour later I was finally home.

I walked into the front door, laid down in the hallway, and didn't move for an hour.

My roommate finally came home. She looked at me, exclaimed, "you're purple!" and took me to the hospital.

The nurse harassed me about the fact that it was finals week. As if my idea of a good makeup job is putting on purple foundation. My roommate yelled at her. They finally got me in.

I went into the CAT scanner twice. My organs were too small for them to make out what was happening. They unpleasantly pumped me up with fluid and I went it again, looking pregnant this time. They discovered that, oh yes, I am leaking toxic fluid all over my insides.

Pandemonium ensued. I was suddenly on pain medications and feeling very happy. And very hyper. I don't remember anything that happened after that.

Thankfully, things went very well in surgery.

Post-surgery was not so lucky.

The doctor (not the smallest person in the world) walked into the room, tripped over the wheel of my bed, and came careening down towards my person, elbow first! He happened to solidly plant his elbow right in the spot where my ticking time bomb used to lurk. The brunt of his entire body weight jabbed exactly where I had just been cut open.

I formed something of a contorted grin and assured him that it didn't hurt that much, but could feel that my cheeks were wet - I think the tears leaped out of my eyes on impact.

The room had almost completely faded into a lovely raven-black when I heard someone say, "get the epinephrine!" The next thing I knew, I was shot in the right arm with a needle. I felt anxious, alert, and paranoid, glancing at the door behind me every now and then to make sure nobody would jump in and surprise me, as the medical staff began asking follow-up questions.

The end. Good riddance to my infernal organ. You've ticked your last tick.

Katherine, let it go, you were better off without it.

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