The Loneliest Organ

My mom's in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Slicing fresh vegetables, boiling pasta shells, seasoning a plump chicken. She’s doing it all in my one bedroom, one bath apartment. Chicken noodle soup with loads of veggies for her growing little boy. I’m sitting on the couch, playing Super Mario World. Vicente Fernandez’s “Mexico Lindo y Querido” is blasting from the radio while I sip on a Capri Sun. I went into the kitchen because it smelled delicious and she yelled “Largaté de aqui!” It's like I’m six years old all over again.

She's here because I had my gallbladder removed a few hours ago. I'm still a little weird because of the painkillers. I still feel the pain, so I believe the term "painkillers" is a misnomer, but at least the pain is diminished somewhat. I'm exhausted and hungry and my stomach is so bloated that it looks like I'm hiding a volleyball underneath my shirt. But I'm not. I just had one of my organs SLICED OFF!

It wasn't as bad as I thought. I went in at 7:30, waited around for a bit, got an IV put in at around 8:15, and then just watched the liquid drip, drip, drip into the tube for about an hour. Then at 9:10, the anesthesiologist injected something into me that made me feel very happy. I was wheeled through the hospital and I think I actually waved as I passed everyone by. I don’t remember. Then they put a mask over my face and I woke up three hours later.

I’ve only eaten three saltine crackers so I don’t know if the surgery can be considered a success, but I did get to ride out on a wheelchair. That can definitely be considered a success. I also got to wear one of those awesome flowery hospital gowns. I’ve always wanted to wear one because they look so comfortable and, aside from showing all of St. Joseph’s hospital my fine ass, they really are.

The biggest downside to the surgery? I can’t exercise for two weeks and I can’t lift weights for six weeks. That, combined with the fact that I can now eat whatever I want, is most certainly a recipe for disaster.


And if not a recipe for disaster, then most certainly a recipe for one plump Alf.