My gallbladder saga has officially become longer than a Netflix limited series. Honestly, at this point it deserves its own theme song, cast reunion, and behind‑the‑scenes documentary. That tiny, spicy, demon‑filled organ made my life a living hell for MONTHS. And don’t let its size fool you—this thing had the personality of a chaotic Disney villain who thrives on attention and monologues.

And just when I thought the drama was over?

Oh no. He wasn’t done. He was in the shadows… plotting… sharpening his tiny gallbladder pitchfork… waiting for the perfect moment to ruin my life again.

And of course, he chose a week I was actually looking forward to. A rare week. A magical week. A week where Tuesday was supposed to be my personal Super Bowl. I left work Sunday night practically skipping, ready to rejoice on Tuesday like a Pentecostal grandma catching the Holy Ghost.

But my gallbladder said: “LOL. No you won’t.”

🌙 THE NIGHT OF THE BETRAYAL

Monday night, the pain hit me like a medieval curse. The same pain that sent me to the hospital before. The same pain that got my gallstones Hoover‑vacuumed out of me. The same pain that led doctors to say, “Sorry ma’am, you’re too fat for surgery,” which is a sentence no one expects to hear outside of a bad sitcom.

I tried to hide it. I lied to my mom. I lied to my aunt. I lied to myself.

I even pulled out my giant massager like I was trying to beat the pain into submission. Spoiler: it did nothing except make me look like I was trying to tenderize my own ribs.

I went to bed determined to sleep.

My gallbladder said: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—no.”

Right side? Pain. Left side? Pain. Back? Pain. Stomach? Pain. Upside down like a bat? Probably would’ve been pain too.

I finally crawled to the recliner like a wounded Victorian orphan and managed to sleep for two hours. TWO. HOURS. I’ve had Amazon deliveries take longer than that.

At 4 a.m., I admitted defeat. There was no way I could go to work Tuesday. No rejoicing. No celebration dance. Just me, my pain, and my gallbladder laughing in the background like a cartoon villain.

🌪️ TUESDAY: THE DAY EVERYTHING GOT WORSE

By noon, I was a wreck. Pain meds? Worthless. Food? Couldn’t look at it. Sleep? A myth. Crying? Too painful. Fetal position? Impossible.

I knew what I had to do. The one thing I didn’t want to do. The one thing I swore I’d never do again.

Go. To. The. ER.

So I waddled in wearing my literal pajamas because I was DONE pretending to be a functioning adult. I walked up to the desk and said, “It’s my gallbladder. Again.” The staff looked shocked, like I had just diagnosed myself with telepathy.

They poked me, prodded me, stabbed me with needles, and rolled me into an ultrasound. Eventually, the results came back exactly as expected:

Gallstones. Traveling. Migrating. Backpacking through my tubes like they were on a European vacation.

Which meant… Another ambulance ride. Back to the main hospital in Dayton. My personal hell.

They pumped me full of pain meds and IV antibiotics, which blessedly knocked me out long enough to forget I existed. My mom and aunt sat with me while I drooled on myself like a tranquilized walrus.

Finally, the ambulance arrived. The ride wasn’t as bad this time—maybe because I was too drugged to care, or maybe because the driver wasn’t trying to reenact Fast & Furious: Gallbladder Drift.

They rolled me through the same hallways, up the same elevator, to the same floor as before.

And all I could think was:

“Oh great. Season 4.”