Dear Damn Gallbladder,

This is your eviction notice.

Do not hurt me on the way out.

Best wishes,
me

Tonight I took the last bath that I’ll probably be able to take for a while. And I was instructed not to put on any lotion and do not wear any makeup. I hope that safflower oil doesn’t count as lotion ‘cause I lubed up with that horsey sauce. I could probably get close to mach speed on a slip’n’slide right now, because come to find out, I make a heckuva awesome bath scrub with safflower oil and coarse sugar and lavender oil that leaves your skin feeling slippery slidey.

What the heck does that have to with my cursed crapstick of a gallbladder? Well…I thought I was having a heart attack a few weeks ago. (And also two other times besides that time.) (Seriously. I’m falling apart. You know that book for kids, “Parts”? I could totally write a sequel.) So after my not-heart attacks, I had this crazy ultrasound that looked this way and that at my insides and lo and behold – there is a gallstone perpetrator. After sitting through the spiel about gallstone perpetrators at the gallbladder doctor’s office, I looked at the diagram in my 1970’s sepia-toned pamphlet, looked back at the doc peering at me over the top of his glasses, and sighed. It’s pretty much a Rube Goldberg machine in there. A series of seemingly random events could start a total anarchy and release the gallstone and voila…I would be in world of hurt. Evidently, you can do without a gallbladder. It’s “just” a storage organ.

So, I guess the crapstick gallbladder will go in my box of extra parts that so far has my wisdom teeth in it. Hey, maybe they could grab my appendix while they’re in there and I could have a complete set.

In the meantime, our poor 8yo boy is a little freaked out about my surgery tomorrow, while our 4yo boy kicks back on the couch combing through my 1970‘s sepia-toned pamphlet and pointing with enthusiasm to the “gallblaller”, further sending the 8yo into the pits of despair.

I think that on Saturday or Sunday, we’re going to have a funeral for the crapstick, Fried Green Tomatoes-style.

Oh…and bonus? A kind friend (sarcasm) shared with Hank today that I will be the Queen of Flatulence for a day or so due to the gas with which they will fill my belly, so that’s awesome.

At least to the boys, who have been demonstrating proper flatulating techniques to me on this surgery eve.

I am in hell.

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