So I wake up this morning because I feel kind of uncomfortable in my bed. I toss and turn and try to get into a better position, but get increasingly uncomfortable. I am pulled fully out of sleep because I realise that it’s not just discomfort; it’s pain. My abdomen feels like a white hot rod has been stuck into it.
So I get up. I’ll walk it off, I think. It’s just a bit of undigested beef, I think. I’m beginning to pace and feeling more and more frantic. It hurts to breathe. I consider calling the hospital. Or my husband. No, the hospital. No… my husband.
Thinking the pain isn’t that terrible, I begin to calmly put on my clothes, simple jogging pants and a jersey. Things easy to get out of if I must. If I have to go to the hospital. I’m not quite that desperate… yet. But I’m putting serious thought into it.
Ten minutes later I’m on the phone screaming to my husband to come get me, NOW. Thankfully, the hospital is just a few blocks away. While the lady takes my information, I am pale, breathing heavy, near tears, cold sweats, with my head on her desk. My husband answered all the questions for me. The had to take me to the room in a wheelchair.
So, they hook me up to an IV, poke and prod, ask what’s wrong, and I can barely speak. The IV helps somewhat, and I stop the cold sweats. I thought something was going to burst, like my appendix. What terrible, terrible pain. I had to have a bunch of other crap done, to rule out pregnancy before they gave me some pain meds. Delicious, delicious pain meds.
I was sent for an ultrasound, and there was the culprit: gallstone. One. About 2cm. It’s a big one. But thankfully, it’s just the one, not many little ones. I had all my other organs checked out, too. All healthy. For some reason, it was comforting at that point to know I wasn’t falling apart, at least. And to be honest, I was pleased to have an answer. Now I know what is causing the pain, I can stop the pain. They said maybe surgery. Only maybe. Diet and exercise need to be changed significantly, and I may be able to avoid surgery altogether if I… well, if I can get myself together. My husband kept saying, “Don’t be nervous if you have to have surgery, they do this kind of thing all the time, don’t be nervous.” I say hell, I’m more scared of living with that awful pain than of having surgery to remove the pain forever. Let’s try this diet and exercise and see if we can live with little Mr. Gallstone in peace before we jump to surgery, shall we?
Still, a part of me is stunned. I’m 27 years old. They kept saying things like “Well, too much McDonalds and that kind of thing.” I don’t eat at fast food restaurants often, that’s the thing. I like them, but they are rare treats. I’m going to have to go with “and that kind of thing.” I do eat a lot of dairy… and I’m lactose intolerant. Later, one of the doctors (he was a smart fellow, clever, intelligent, geeky… struck me as a Doper… should have asked him) told me that I had the “four F’s” against me: I am fair, female, fertile, and fat. “Er, well, you’re not fat, but you are carrying some extra pounds,” he quickly corrected. I wasn’t insulted, I giggled. Also, the worst count against me: genetics. Both on my mother’s side and my father’s side. My father is in the damn medical books for his case of stones. Lucky me.
So, here I sit, doped up nicely, feeling pretty good now. My wonderful husband has gone out to restock our fridge with fat-free goodies, lots of fresh fruits and veggies and whole grain breads. So, that should take care of that little weight issue I was having problems with. Feeling tempted? Frock that. I’d rather go without than go through that blinding pain again. And I’d best get started eating healthy now; so when I have kids, they learn to eat like I eat. Save them from their genes, and all.
Ugh, I say.
Ugh. 
I think they had to rule it out anyway. No gallbladder stones or sediment, and apparently I have “nicely-shaped kidneys”, according to the radiologist. (Maybe that was a pick-up line? :dubious: ) Anyway, I am lactose intolerant, and my digestive pains had started shortly after I attended a fondue party. The final diagnosis was little ulcers in my duodenum. Digestive problems are some of the least-fun experiences you can have, so you have my sympathies!