Based on the surgeon’s expression, I gathered mine wasn’t the typical reaction patients have upon being told they’d be losing an organ. Apparently, most patients don’t cheer.

But after being so sick for so long, after being able to eat little but Cream of Wheat for weeks, I couldn’t hold back my excitement that it might soon be over. Although I’d been hearing my symptoms were “textbook gallbladder” for weeks, I feared the tests would show I was fine. Then I’d be back to square one.

But not this time. For once, there was no “wait and watch.” This time, the culprit had been identified, and my trusted surgeon was quick to set a date to take it–

Sorry about that. Had to answer the door. Magazine salesman. Nice guy. He actually asked if my mother was home, like he really believed I’m too young to have a house of my own. Jeez. He sure had some good deals on those magazines, though. And I believe in supporting the young. So where was I?

A few days before going under the knife, I mentioned my upcoming surgery to a coworker. An eavesdropper overheard. “Oh yeah. I had that done. Came back to work the next day.”

“You did what?”

“The next day,” he repeated, with a cocky head bobble. “Doc said to take two weeks off, but I didn’t see the need.”

Another chimed in. “Same here. I even stopped by the office on my way home from the hospital.”

I stood stunned for a moment, feeling conflicted. Although it was reassuring to hear the surgery might be such a breeze, it was difficult to suppress the urge to deliver a shin kick to anyone who would return to work so fast, thus making those who don’t look really bad. I decided–

What’s that, Celeste? No, we can’t go to the pool. I’m working. I’m writing my column. Besides, it’s raining. The pool will be closed. Yeah, I know the whole reason to go to a pool is to get wet, but trust me, it’s closed.

Sorry. I never realized how many interruptions there could be at home during the day.

It wasn’t long before I began hearing tales from the other end of the spectrum-horror stories from those flattened by the procedure.

“I couldn’t eat for a week,” a friend said. “Then it was nothing but baby food for a month after that.”

“The pain was so bad afterward I was convinced I was having a heart attack,” my aunt–

Oh no! Fidgety dog with watery eyes! Still trying to housebreak the pup. Back in a sec.

I ended up somewhere in the middle. I went into surgery at 8 am, and was on my way home by 11:30 that same morning. (I did NOT stop by the office on the way.) The first few days are a bit of a blur. I remember being bloated and tired and sore. I remember my own personal crowd (dogs and cats) following me as I tested one uncomfortable sleeping space after another. I remember much “Law & Order,” a few videos, many magazines and one really good book.

Even though it was often uncomfortable, it was more rest than I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever. That part was nice and–

No, honey. I don’t think I’m ready for Cajun just yet. No, not Indian either. Or Chinese. And no, smart aleck. No Cream of Wheat.

That reminds me. There has been one somewhat embarrassing complication from surgery, one I normally wouldn’t discuss in public except I believe both an explanation and an apology are owed to those seated near me at the Clay Center performance of Mountain Stage Sunday night.

You see, we purchased our tickets long before knowing I’d be having surgery a week before the show. And when we requested seats in the very center, it was done without realizing how many unfortunate people would be seated between the newly gastronomically challenged and the nearest restroom. For this–and for having such large feet–I am truly sorry.

My apologies, too, to those I may have inadvertently body-checked on my way up the aisle.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 30th, 2006 at 12:46 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.