by Jonathan A. Ward

I woke up in the middle of the night in severe abdominal pain; I ran to the bathroom and bowed on my knees to the white porcelain god. My wife drove me to the Emergency Room where I spent about three hours waiting in excruciating pain. After tests, I was released back home. 

All that day long I sat in pain. After trying to medicate myself to sleep because of the pain, my wife again insisted I go back to the Emergency Room; it was a Friday night. For hours I sat in very uncomfortable chairs, waiting to be seen, switching about ten times to get different views of different sick people.

At 2:00 AM I approached “reception” (loose term) and asked, “I’ve been waiting about seven hours; do you think I could get some help soon?”  For some reason they had been taking those with gunshot wounds ahead of me. An hour or so back I had considered trying to find a gun to self-inflict and thus move up the pecking order. At “reception” the guy at the desk answered, “I’ll go back myself and prepare you a room right now,” and he did. That seven hours in the Emergency Room waiting area ranks as the most painful experience of my life.  

Within 15 minutes of admission, a beautiful nurse came in and helped me by administering pain medications; after two days of  torture I was finally experiencing some relief. It’s interesting that without performing any new tests the same doctor who I saw the previous day came in and said, “We suspect it’s your gallbladder, and it needs to come out.” I said, “A minute ago you said, ‘You suspect it’s my gallbladder,’ and then you say, ‘It’s got to come out?’ Can we try to save it through antibiotics?”  He informed me then, “No, the gallbladder is ‘necrotic,’ filled with stones, and had to go. In a few minutes, you will be admitted into the hospital.” He left.  

After a while the nurse came back in and I exasperatedly explained that the doctor said my gallbladder was history. She looked at me and said, “Let it go,” and my first thought was, “She’s right. Let it go.” On another visit right before they wheeled me out, I told the nurse,  “Getting older can be hard” and she replied, “Yes, it’s not for the faint of heart.” Or faint of gallbladder I thought.

In the hospital a doctor came into my room and announced, “You’re a candidate for ’nuclear surgery!’” Too shocked to ask, “What the heck is nuclear surgery,” I was left with my mouth wide open. Was I to become a science experiment?! Thankfully, a surgeon came in soon and explained that they would simply and laparoscopically remove my gallbladder through a small hole below my right rib cage. At 10:00 a.m. I was taken to a huge surgery room and the surgeon announced, “This is Jonathan Ward, birthday June 24, 1955 and we are removing his gallbladder.”  What a relief! I was in the right room and would not get the brain surgery my wife thinks I need.

Later, I awoke under a sheet and thought, “OH NO, THEY THINK I’M DEAD!” However, before I could tell them I was alive, a doctor peeked under the sheet and asked, “Do you know where you are?” I replied, “The Playboy Mansion?”  

I was concerned that missing an organ would negatively affect my life as a writer, beloved by all. However, you may be glad to know missing a gallbladder has not had any effect. Perhaps I have a little less gall? And don’t be shy in the ER to say, “Hey I’ve been waiting here seven hours and I feel like I’m dying.”  So, speak up, be the squeaky wheel or weal, get help; you’ll feel better and may live through it.