I accidentally caused a string of worry in my social atmosphere when I made a point of screaming AS LOUD AS I HAVE EVER SCREAMED on Monday night when my abdomen filled with tacs and needles that I myself had not swallowed or absentmindedly slipped through my bellybutton as some means of entertainment during a slow lecture.
I was taken to the hospital. Because I disagree with a five hour emergency room wait (and people think Canada is bad, sheesh), I was taken home. In the morning, I was taken to the urgent care office. From there I received the unstructions TO GO DIRECTLY TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM OR RISK AN UNTIMELY DEATH. I was again taken to the hospital. I settled for a two hour wait -- that later turned into a nine hour wait; leaving the waiting room is such a tease.
The first opinion: my appendix is actually a balloon. I drank two large cups of a mysterious clear liquid that tasted exactly like what I imagine an oompa loompa would taste like and then wiggled and boiled when my veins were filled with a distressingly hot liquid. Under the spinning space-ready cat scan machine, two doctors took pictures of my appendix and sent those pictures to a radiologist who sent them to a third doctor who informed me that my appendix did not show up in any of the pictures because I am so thin that it is impossible to take pictures of my insides, which made me wonder if I am actually a ghost or if I even have insides at all.
They did, however, see excess liquid floating somewhere in my pelvic region, which led me to believe that I am harboring the melted version of the wicked witch and led the doctors to their second opinion: my ovaries are actually a war zone. I was given an ultrasound, which was not at all what it looks like on television. The jelly was not even cold. There were cameras inserted in unimaginable places. AND I heard my ovaries whispering to each other. It sounded a lot like what bats sound like when they are sleeping upside down, and I felt guilty for intruding on a private conversation or a secret meeting of the war council. Again, pictures were sent and sent and sent and there was little to be seen beyond one leftover grenade.
I am home home home now and confined to my bed until further notice. This is all one misplaced disaster.