(May the odds be ever in your IV.)

I left off last time as I was being rolled down the hospital hallway toward what would become my glamorous new Airbnb for the next couple of days: my hospital room. I braced myself, fully expecting the same chaos as before. Last time, I was greeted by a whole team of nurses like I was Beyoncé arriving for a surprise performance. They bathed me, questioned me, poked me, drained me, and stole my bodily fluids like medical vampires. It was fast, it was overwhelming, and I was in pain — and this time, the pain was even worse. I was not emotionally prepared for a sequel.

But plot twist: they rolled me in and… only one nurse was waiting. One! A single, calm, sweet, angelic nurse. No chaos. No crowd. No assembly line of “let’s see what else we can take from her.”

I could’ve cried from happiness.

There was no bed bath setup. No interrogation spotlight. Just a gown laid out neatly and a polite, “Do you want to use the bathroom before we get started?” Uh, YES. Because dragging an IV pole to the bathroom is the ninth circle of hell. I practically sprinted.

She did warn me she had to wipe me down with these hospital wipes every eight hours. Did I love that? No. Did I accept my fate? Also no, but I tolerated it. She wiped me down, I got my gown on, and we moved on with our lives.

🩺 A Quick Note on Hospital Dignity (or lack thereof)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about hospital stays, it’s this: your dignity packs its bags and leaves the moment you’re admitted. Your butt? Oh, it’s going to be seen. By everyone. Nurses, doctors, techs, men, women, probably a ghost or two. Just remember — they’ve seen every shape, size, color, and configuration of butt imaginable. Yours is just another stamp in their passport.

Anyway, back to the story.

While I was wrestling myself into the gown, my lovely nurse gathered the IV supplies, antibiotics, and pain meds. Then came the fun part: finding a vein. My veins are shy. They hide. They play hard to get. They are the introverts of the circulatory system.

She poked around my arm. Nothing. She tapped. Nothing. She squinted like she was trying to read the fine print on a prescription bottle. Still nothing.

So I told her, “They usually find one in my hand.” And she did — after poking me three times like she was trying to unlock a cheat code.

But finally, the IV was in. The meds were flowing. I was ready for that sweet, sweet relief.

Except… she came back with pills. PILLS. Ma’am. I was expecting the good stuff through the tube. But I swallowed them like a champ, and thankfully they worked, which is all that mattered.

She slipped out, turned off the light, and I turned on the TV because I need noise to sleep. It was on some soothing music channel with pretty scenery, so I was like, “Okay buddy, this is our vibe now,” and drifted off into la‑la land.

😴 The Sleep Olympics

I slept until the morning shift change. They woke me up only to introduce the new nurse — who happened to be one from my first visit — and then the lab people swooped in to steal more blood. I was informed I was NPO: no food, no water, no nothing, because surgery was likely happening soon.

I didn’t care about food. But water? I was thirstier than a cactus in July. The only water I got was with meds, and I savored every drop like it was liquid gold.

Honestly, I spent most of my hospital stay asleep. Between the pain meds and exhaustion, I was basically a hibernating bear. My mom stayed with me, and I only woke up to talk to nurses, doctors, or cry because the pain decided to remind me it existed.

🩺 Enter: Dr. A — My Gallbladder Avenger

Then I met my surgeon, Dr. A. We share the same last name, so he kept saying we needed to stick together. He was not happy they didn’t take my gallbladder out the first time. According to him, that thing should’ve been evicted immediately. And he was right — the gallbladder is not something you negotiate with. When it acts up, it needs to go.

He also said my weight shouldn’t have been a factor, especially since I’d already lost about 40 pounds. He put me on the schedule for surgery the next day — Thursday. I was thrilled. Nervous, but thrilled. I’ve had surgeries before, but waking up from them? Not my favorite hobby.

The rest of the day was just sleep, pain, meds, repeat. No tests, no MRI field trips, no CT scan adventures. Just blood work in the morning and occasional check-ins.

My surgery was set for 11 a.m. Thursday, and I went to bed Wednesday night SO happy, thinking, “Tomorrow is the day this nightmare ends!”

Oh, sweet summer child.

I had no idea what was coming next.