Appendix
When I was about 7 years old, my dad got appendicitis. All I could really understand at the time was that daddy's tummy hurt so bad that he had to go to the hospital and have some bad bits taken out by genius doctors. And then he was home and had to take it slow for a while as he recovered.
A couple weeks later I felt under the weather. I was already an expert on getting sick - every season I had strep throat, if not also the flu. But this illness felt different - beyond the typical fever a weird soreness grew in my belly. I immediately came to the conclusion I must have appendicitis, and proudly announced my self-diagnosis to the whole family. My father found it adorable how his youngest son wanted to be just like his daddy.
Writhing around in sweaty agony I insisted whatever theories I had regarding my condition were correct. Finally after a day or so of groaning, "I have appendicitis," in a loop my father wanted to prove me wrong. He had me lay down on my back, and he gently pushed into my abdomen. "Does that hurt?" he asked. It didn't, and I truthfully answered, "no." Maybe he was right - maybe I am full of shit.
But here's the thing: the test for appendicitis isn't whether or not you experience pain when applying pressure to your abdomen, but upon release, a.k.a "rebound tenderness." My father pulled his hand back suddenly - and a gunshot bolted through my solar plexus. I cried out. I vividly remember the look of panic on dad's face as he came to terms with the brutal truth that my naive prognosis was indeed correct. Smug righteousness is a mild painkiller - thinking "ha ha I told you so!" temporarily dulled my suffering.
The following was a blur. Chaos filled the house. Suddenly I laid in the backseat of the car, looking up out the window to the sky, keeping my mind off the discomfort by counting the upper tips of trees passing by as we hurried to the pediatrician. The doctor looked me over for one second before saying I should get to the hospital immediately. At the hospital I was plopped into a wheelchair. Then I watched an intravenous hook forced right into my forearm before I could say, "wait wait no no no don't do that OW!"
The only good thing about my stay at the hospital was having my own television. I watched many classic 70's shows. The pre-op procedure took days, I'm not sure why. This was a long time before laparoscopic appendectomies. Given significant medical advancements current sufferers are in and out and back to their lives within 48 hours. Not me. I had no choice but deal with old school invasive surgery - my hospital stay was going to be over a week, followed by months of recovery.
Leading up to the surgery I couldn't really eat, and they kept pumping me up with antibiotics and pain killers. The first needle was an unpleasant surprise to say the least. A nurse showed up and started filling a big syringe. "Is that going to hurt?" I asked in a panic. She said, "Have you ever been bitten by a mosquito?" This analogy calmed me down. But then she jabbed the needle deep into my arm and I yelped. The burning pinch was second only to the betrayal - what the hell giant fucking mosquito of death was she referring to?
So I lived in a state of ceaseless anxiety waiting for the next nurse to arrive, coldly squirt air bubbles from the syringe, select a fresh muscle, and inject away. It truly felt like they were taking out the frustrations of their shitty lives on me. How unfair! I think some of them enjoyed watching me squirm, helpless prisoner that I was, receiving somebody else's punishment.
My mom was visiting and the muppet show was on. This should have been a time of joy. But once again a nameless nurse came in and prepared her weapon. I had enough. "No!" I screamed and began thrashing around my bed, almost tearing the intravenous right out of my arm. Mom hadn't the strength to restrain me, even with the nurse's help. They loudly called for backup. In the end it took my mother and three nurses to pin me down long enough to administer the shot. I had so much adrenaline coursing through my body I didn't even notice.
The day of surgery finally arrived. I barely remember that morning, though I clearly recall the Dr. Simon's face as he hovered over me and got to work on my guts. It felt like minutes as I studied the part of his face exposed above his mask. The clear attention and focus in his eyes calmed me, and then I dropped into the black abyss.
I came to in the post op recovery room. Mom was waiting, watching me as I regained consciousness. It felt like I was asleep for days. Maybe weeks. The first thing I said upon waking up was a guess: "is today.. Tuesday?" Mom smiled.
Back to my hospital room. I was relieved the godawful needles were behind me. However, I had a week of absolutely torturous recovery. I couldn't even stand up for a day or two. Going to the bathroom was a fucking brutal ordeal.
But I could get into a wheelchair and brought to the entertainment lounge. They had board games, but I was more interested in the free jukebox. I probably drove everybody in the whole wing nuts by consistently playing a two song playlist: "Revolution" by the Beatles and Aerosmith's "Dream on."
My first attempt walking without help was a slow, agonizing shuffle to a different lounge. Mom suggested we play scrabble. She won the toss up and went first, opening with a 7 letter word that scored her 80 points.
Once eating solid foods and feeling well enough I was sent home. Two weeks later I got the stitches removed. I watched the doctor as she snipped the loops. As she pulled one end of each string the other end would disappear beneath the skin, then reappear on the other side of the scar. Creepy. The process sort of both tickled and itched.
The doctor's orders were such that I wasn't allowed to play during recess for a month or two. Any shred of athleticism I might have had in life was certainly crushed into dust by this hiatus. Every afternoon I sat on the bench at the edge of the playground watching hundreds of peers running about, going down the slide, jumping off the swings, playing kickball. Meanwhile I lived inside my head, composing prog rock epics by the dozen, each accompanied by the din of raucous children.