My ex-gall bladder: I never liked you anyway

It all began with the mother of all bellyaches. I figured it could have been the shrimp. Could have been.

I’d read once that time heals all wounds. Whoever said that has never heard me sing. There’s not enough olive oil (Mom’s surefire earache remedy) in all of Sicily for that to be true. Being somewhat intelligent, with a gullet feeling like it had been doused in week-old sundrenched Tabasco, the inferno in my personal South-of-the-Border pulled a John Paul Jones and had just begun to fight.

That was on Friday and Saturday. By Sunday, with Northside Hospital seemingly so close I could touch it, I was like those poor saps who tap a keg and wait out a hurricane.

By Monday, I was on an emergency room gurney, getting scanned, poked, prodded and scanned.

Before I go on, I need to ask a question: Do you know what a gallbladder is and what it does?

Me neither. I know I had one and now I don’t. Good riddance! You stay away and I’ll religiously avoid fried foods. But I’m still not eating lima beans.

I can attest that when it is infected, it’s time to batten down the hatches and pray for relief.

Figuring I’d be out of the ER in a few minutes, I knew we were in for a long haul.

On that Monday I was having a rotten day for figuring.

A nurse came to me and acted like I had won Powerball when she said: “We’re going to admit you.”

There were no spinning balls, just an uncomfortable bed with some cool buttons that it would have been a riot to push had I not been hurting so bad.

I was lucky. No lottery winnings but at least I’m here to share this. My gallbladder was the width of a spider’s whisker from bursting, and if that had happened, instead of reading this, you’d be reading of a third-grader field trip to Mayfield Dairy.

I met the surgeon, Brian Whitfield VI. I’d never met a “6th” before. The closest I’d ever got to that long a lineage was listening to that old Herman’s Hermits song about the 8th, as in Henry.