They took x-rays, tested my blood, and gave me morphine. Okay, after that I got pretty happy, but I know there was more.
Doctor came in, said some things, I was distracted by his clipboard, but he talked about white blood cell count, abdominal pain, and then…appendix! He said I had appendicitis! No, he didn’t say I had appendicitis. He said I had most, but not all, of the symptoms of appendicitis, and then he said… “‘When in doubt, take it out.’ That’s what he said! Why did he operate on me if there was nothing wrong with my appendix?!” I looked at my family for an answer, but they were as dumbfounded as I was.
It was April 5th, and it turns out I was in for a longer recovery than I had planned on. Because my surgeon had found it necessary to locate my misplaced appendix without a decisive ultrasound, I was carelessly carved open like a disregarded animal; in the process of solving this medical-mystery, my scalpel-happy surgeons thoughtlessly tore through my abdominal muscles, rendering me useless for my track team for the remainder of the season. Also, after receiving such a deep incision, and having air pushed into my body to be slowly absorbed, I was bedridden for two