“Can you die of gas?” I cried out, crawling on hands and knees from the bathroom – the least uncomfortable position for my bloated and painful belly. If my housemate, Linda, replied, I did not hear. She was moving with deliberate speed to package up herself and her 5 year old granddaughter to haul me to the Emergency Room.
In the triage room at the ER, I sat making the scrunched up face that the pain scale pictures label “severe,” so when the nice medical person asked me my pain level, I could objectively say, “9” and hope drugs would be forthcoming. Wheeled back to ER room. Hooked up to IV. Doctor pressing on my abdomen. Ow. Hoped-for drugs put in IV.
I kept assuring Linda that if she needed to go, I would be OK. It was, after all, the day before Thanksgiving, and things needed to be done. She posted a request for relief on the BOLD* page on Facebook, but fidgeting five-year-old notwithstanding, she kindly and firmly refused to leave until someone else could come to stay with me.
CT Scan results normally take 45 minutes, but not 15 minutes later the doctor came in, saying, “Acute appendicitis.” She outlined my choices: 1) go on antibiotics and wait to see if it resolves (accompanied by vivid descriptions of what that waiting would feel like, and what would happen if the appendix perforated) or 2) immediate appendectomy. Let me think. She quickly produced the papers to sign and began preparing for surgery.
Ingrid arrived about then to relieve Linda (whose granddaughter had done pretty well for 4 hours), and we waited for me to go to surgery. When I came to in recovery, Ingrid had been relieved by Serena, who only went home after seeing that I was safely tucked into my hospital bed for the night.
Thanksgiving morning brought visitors: Britta, with a pilgrim-themed coloring project from her daughter, and Steve from church. My brother called to see how I was doing and make me laugh. I ate solid food for lunch, and they sent me home in the afternoon with painkillers and antibiotics.
As I recovered in the following days, Linda’s family accepted my drugged self, my sister brought me flowers, friends hauled me to doctor appointments, and BOLD hiker friends came by to walk (slowly) around the block with me.
Not the holiday one hopes for, by a long shot. But that rebellious and ungrateful appendix highlighted something important for me: I don’t have to do it alone. I have loving community, companions on the journey. In the face of the lie of isolation (that I have tried not to live by for so long), I am valuable to others, even when helpless or a “burden.”
And for this I give thanks.
*The BOLD is a group of women from my church (House for All Sinners and Saints in Denver, CO) who meet regularly to eat, hike, and share stories. BOLD stands for Badass Old Lady Drinkers. The BOLD are always there for each other.