I woke up in the middle of the night in severe abdominal pain; I ran to the bathroom and bowed down and worshiped the white porcelain god. My wife drove me to the Emergency Room where I spent about three hours waiting in excruciating pain. After a battery of tests, a very nice doctor informed me that they couldn’t figure out what was wrong, and I was released back home. All that day long I sat home in pain.

After trying without success to medicate myself to sleep, my wife again insisted I go back to the Emergency Room — this was a Friday night about 7:00 p.m. I sat there waiting to be seen, in uncomfortable chairs, switching about ten times to get different views of different sick people.

At about 2:00 in the morning 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 unknown reason they had been taking those with gunshot wounds and those arriving by ambulance ahead of me. An hour or so back I had considered trying to find a gun to self-inflict and thus move up the admission pecking order. Of course at that point they might have just decided I was “beyond hope.” 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 has got to rank as the very worst experience of my life.

Within 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. She asked me if I needed anything more, and I replied, “A Swedish massage would be wonderful.” She hadn’t the time for a thorough massage, but said she would ask if one of the other ER nurses had time to spare. Sadly, it never happened. I realized these are busy people.

t’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.” He was getting in touch with Kaiser surgeons because the gallbladder needed to come out. I said, “A minute ago you said, ‘You suspect it’s my gallbladder,’ and now 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 Kaiser surgeon came in soon and explained that they would simply and laparoscopically remove my gallbladder through a small hole below my right rib cage (finally I was to get a bullet hole). 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.” About five minutes later I got the same question to which I replied more emphatically, “I told you! The Playboy Mansion.”

I was concerned that missing an organ would negatively affect my life as a Chippendales dancer. However, you may be glad to know missing a gallbladder has not had much effect. Perhaps I have a little less gall? If I took anything away from my experience it would be to take care how you arrive at the Emergency Room, because they’re going to take those ambulance transported and those with gunshot wounds ahead of you. I’m sure they have found mummified remains in the corner of the ER – some forgotten sod who didn’t 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.