So it became official: my gallbladder was getting evicted. No notice. No appeal. No “please pack your things.” Just get out. But before anyone could yank this tiny troublemaker from my body, I had to meet with a general surgeon — which is fair, because you don’t want just anyone digging around in your organs like they’re searching for loose change in a couch cushion.

At this point, my gallbladder was acting all innocent. Quiet. Polite. Not a single tantrum. Classic manipulator behavior. So I scheduled the appointment.

But my gallbladder? Oh, it had plans.

Before I could even make it to the surgeon, the little gremlin threw another full‑blown fit. This time, when I walked into the ER, I strutted in like a seasoned detective solving my own medical mystery.

“What brings you in today?”
“It’s my gallbladder.”
Shock.
They were expecting something vague like “my stomach hurts” or “I haven’t pooped since Easter.” But not me. I came in with confidence and a diagnosis.

And guess what? They actually listened.

They put me in a private room — with my own bathroom, thank you very much — hooked me up to an IV, and gave me pain meds that could make a grown woman cry tears of gratitude. Then came the tests: CT scan, ultrasound, the whole shebang. Both showed stones in my gallbladder and in the little tube that connects it to the stomach. Apparently, that’s serious. Like “call another hospital” serious.

Which is how I ended up in an ambulance for the first time in my life.

Let me tell you: I hated it. Every. Single. Second. I wasn’t even sick enough to need an ambulance — I could’ve ridden in a Toyota Corolla just fine — but liability said otherwise. The ride was bumpy, loud, cold, and I swear the bed was trying to flip me onto the floor every time they turned. By the time we arrived (after what felt like 19 hours but was actually one), I was ready to kiss the parking lot.

It was 1 a.m. I was exhausted, freezing, and in pain. They rolled me through endless hallways and finally into a room that was somehow smaller than the one at the tiny hospital. Make it make sense.

Then came the nurses. Three of them. With a hospital gown (the fashion equivalent of a punishment), IV supplies, blood pressure cuffs, and the dreaded words: “We need a urine sample.” Oh, and a bed bath. At 1 a.m. I had two women washing me, someone else drawing blood, someone else hooking up IVs — it was like a chaotic medical flash mob. By the time they left, it was after 2:30 a.m. and I passed out instantly.

At 5 a.m., two men in scrubs appeared like sleep‑stealing ninjas.
“Ms. Anderson, are you ready for your MRI?”
No. No, I was not. But they were already lowering my bed and preparing to scoop me onto another one like a rotisserie chicken, so off I went.

I hate MRIs. They’re loud, uncomfortable, and require staying still — three things I’m terrible at. But thanks to my 2.5 hours of sleep, I passed out inside the tube. Honestly? Best MRI of my life.

After that came another ultrasound, and then finally I was rolled back to my room where I collapsed again.

At this point, I hadn’t eaten in 24 hours. I was starving. I was becoming feral. But they wouldn’t let me eat because they didn’t know if I needed surgery or an ERCP — a fancy procedure to remove stones from the bile duct. A temporary fix. A Band‑Aid on a bullet wound.

So I waited. And waited. And watched TV with commercials like it was 1997. Nurses came in and out, giving meds and taking vitals, but telling me absolutely nothing. Doctors? Rare mythical creatures.

Finally, one appeared and explained they’d do the ERCP first, remove the stones from the duct, and then decide about surgery. But then came the kicker: the surgeon wasn’t comfortable operating at my weight. So surgery was “maybe later.”

My ERCP went perfectly. They removed TEN stones. Ten! Apparently one or two is normal. Ten is “holy crap.”

When I woke up, I was ready to eat the hospital bed. But nope — still no food. They weren’t sure about surgery yet. The next day, they finally told me: no surgery. I was furious. I knew I’d be back. I knew the gallbladder was still full of stones. I knew this nightmare wasn’t over.

They told me to see a weight‑loss surgeon, lose weight, then come back for gallbladder removal. And then they finally let me eat.

I was happy to eat. I was not happy knowing I’d be reliving this whole saga again in the near future.