"Ms. S., you have gallbladder sludge." As soon as the ER doctor said those words to me, (as I was squeezing the hell out of Poseidon's hand) I knew it was official: after 42 years together, my gallbladder wants nothing more to do with me.
The irony of this tale is that earlier in the week I had a discussion with my therapist about how down on myself I was being, and she said, in a joking manner, "Well you must not be too bad of a person because your arms and legs have stuck with you all of these years." I felt so much better about myself after leaving her office. She was right. If my limbs don't hate me and they don't want to take off on their own like baby birds dropping from a nest, then I'm doing ok. Did I mention the irony? My limbs were still officially in like with me, but internal organs...another story.
Anyway, after a couple of weeks of thinking I could find some natural cure by changing my diet, etc., I decided I really should consult with the surgeon that the ER doc had referred me to in order to get his perspective. I met with him today. I discussed my concerns about having surgery and not having surgery, and he humored my neurotic ideas for a bit. I told him of the negative things I'd read online, and he made me feel better by telling me that most of the people who bother to write about negative things online are hypochondriacs, and have no life, and I have to admit, I agree with him.
So, surgery is scheduled for July 11 and I'm feeling rather positive about it, but being 42 years old and never having had a major health problem (other than my plethora of mental issues), I'm also a bit sad that my internal organs have decided to put on a production of "The Caine Mutiny" without my permission. Upstarts!
I'm already in pre-mourning at the loss of an internal organ, albeit an unnecessary organ for survival. I'm still considering asking the surgeon if I can keep the gallbladder after the surgery (but I'm not sure if this will raise red flags and he demands to speak with my therapist). It's strange to me because I've only had one other surgery in my life, and that was oral surgery to have 3 of my 4 wisdom teeth removed (and I was given some amazing drugs for that). I wasn't upset about the loss of my teeth, but I was also in my mid-twenties at the time, and wasn't too concerned about losing "parts" of me yet.
With age, do we become more attached to those things that are apart of our being by default? Maybe I've finally realized that I'm not invincible and parts of me are inevitably going to stop functioning? Or, could it be that perhaps the older I get the more sentimental I am about body parts?
--Fortuitous Observer
