If you think this gallbladder drama feels like a never‑ending Netflix series that refuses to be canceled—trust me, SAME. I was living inside the world’s worst medical soap opera, and every episode was titled “Why Am I Still Here?”

So let’s pick up where we left off: me, finally being told I was getting surgery. Yes, the devil organ was about to be evicted. I never thought I’d be excited to be sliced open like a Thanksgiving turkey, but there I was—thrilled, giddy, READY. I wanted that pain gone. Banished. Sent to the shadow realm.

Did I sleep peacefully the night before, knowing relief was coming? Absolutely not. My gallbladder was like, “Oh, you thought this was over? LOL.” The pain ramped up like it was auditioning for America’s Got Talent: Internal Organ Edition. Something I once loved—sleep—was ripped away from me. Damn you, gallbladder. Damn you straight to the biohazard bin.

Morning finally arrived. The Big Day. I waited for someone to whisk me away to pre‑op like a princess being escorted to the ball—except instead of a ball, it was a freezing operating room and instead of a gown, it was… well, still a gown, but the sad hospital kind.

I watched the clock like it owed me money. 11 AM: nothing. 12 PM: still nothing. 1 PM: my mom finally asked what was going on, and THAT’S when we were told my surgery was pushed to tomorrow because Dr. A had an “emergency.”

WHAT. NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Another day of pain? Another night in the hospital? I didn’t sign up for this extended‑stay nonsense. If I hadn’t been in agony, I would’ve packed my bags and escaped like a raccoon fleeing a trash can.

Then Dr. A showed up that evening… and surprise! His story was VERY different. Turns out he didn’t have another surgery. Nope. My surgery could have happened—if the nurses had given me a medication four hours beforehand. They didn’t. They lied. They LIED. At that point, I was too exhausted to even be mad. What was I going to do—waddle out?

The next morning, they finally gave me the medication I should’ve gotten the day before. I drifted in and out of sleep, counting down the minutes, listening for footsteps like a dog waiting for its owner to come home. And then—THE DOOR OPENED. It was time. I could’ve cried.

Pre‑op was weirdly fast. Usually I sit around for an hour or two contemplating my life choices. Not this time. Fifteen minutes later, I was being rolled into the Arctic Tundra of Surgery Room #4. I started counting down—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—BLACK.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in recovery, groggy, confused, and blissfully unaware of what my stomach looked like. I didn’t know if I had tiny incisions or if they’d opened me up like a piñata. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dizzy, I wasn’t nauseous—I was just tired and overwhelmingly relieved that the tiny demon inside me was GONE.

Of course, recovery was waiting for me like, “Hey girl, miss me?” But that’s a story for the next chapter of this ridiculous saga.