I normally don't have much time to write. It really stinks, actually. I have a demanding day job that I WISH could be nine to five. It is more like nine to midnight, if I am lucky. I made a promise to myself to shlog through November and finish my two works in progress. I had a plan. It was a good plan. Somewhere around 3:10 a.m last Thursday, the plan went to hell.
I woke with a pain in my central rib cage and shortness of breath. After a hearty meal at the Cheesecake Factory (what could be healthier), my first thought was that I had heartburn. A few Tums later, nothing changed. I woke my husband and made him drive me to the hospital. I felt like a total hypochondriac in the ER admitting area (although, I must say, the lack of a sense of urgency with the triage nurse perturbed me to no end).
I know I need to eat better and exercise, but I love gooey, cheesy, flavorful foods and sitting on my big fat keister. Simple pleasures - when you find them you have to savor them. However, fearfully I gave my me eculpa to the ER doc, promised to put myself on the straight and narrow, and begged him to make the blasted pain go away.
Several hours later, after an ultrasound, x-ray and blood work, I got the verdict. Gall stones. I had gall stones. I am only 36. This guy must be kidding me. And his delivery, oh it was priceless.
"You have gall stones. Your gall bladder needs to come out. Here is a list of two surgeons. Do you want us to call one for you, or do you have your own?" Like I keep a surgeon on speed dial.
I find myself now trying to rearrange a work schedule, sneak in the much needed house repairs in the next two weeks, and schedule a surgery. My poor plan was the first casualty. I had a color coded calendar and everything.
The question remains, during my downtime following surgery when I am confined to my bed, will I have the stones to write?