So, I’ve been feeling quite under the weather. You know, puking, pain, can’t eat, scream curses kind of under the weather.

Last Sunday I went to the emergency room, where the young, handsome doctor said, “That sounds like your gall bladder.” So they did bloodwork and an ultrasound, and the YHD said, “Nope, no gallstones. Must be food poisoning.” Then they dosed me up with painkillers, handed me a prescription for more painkillers, and told me to come back if it got worse.

What, this could GET WORSE?

So for a week, I try to resume eating, only to discover that my body does not WANT this food, and has every intention of forcing me to keep said food a LONG WAY away from my stomach. (Just a note: this involves the top end of my body, not the bottom end, for those of you who are squeamish.) After throwing up for seven days straight, I have decided that bulimia is an over-rated disease. I don’t get the allure.

In addition, I have been given pain killers that make me have very, very strange dreams. I’m not entirely certain, but I think Joseph Smith told me that he had a lot in common with Simon Cowell, and he asked me for Bill Clinton’s phone number. REALLY! “I did NOT translate that book with my head stuck in a hat!”

I’d make a very bad addict, I’m telling you, because I would be trying to find ways to avoid getting my next fix. “Shouldn’t we grab a cup of coffee at the mission before we stick that needle into our arms and shoot up?”

At any rate, the vomiting, the nausea, the weird dreams–compounded by intense pain–just kept getting worse. Here’s where the “come back if you get worse” part comes in.

So today, I went back, worse as was expected of me, were I ever to grace the halls of that hospital again. If YHD had come into the room after they had me settled, I might have had to light him on fire. I don’t care how young and handsome he was. IT WAS NOT FOOD POISOINING.

The doctor I saw this time was apparently a werewolf in a former life. He had some serious chest hair going on, springing out of his scrubs and trying to climb up his neck and ESCAPE.

Standing a good ways back from said chest hair was his mini me, a resident who was “shadowing” him.

People are almost always on their best behavior when someone is watching their every move. I know this much is true.

So, he informed me that he needed to do some sort of “hidescan” test that involved shooting nuclear materials into my body. Wow. Afterward, will I be able to do party tricks? “Turn off the lights, and watch Natalie glow!”

Turns out this test was just plain flat ass LONG. More than two hours. My mother, who took me to the hospital, was ready to search the morgue. She was pretty worried.

But, it revealed that the gall bladder, the little culprit, was highly dysfunctional.

So, Monday morning will see me in the hospital, having said offensive gall bladder removed.

And tonight? Can you say PERCOCET?

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