When I get angry at either the ex or Number 2, I call V., as she readily admits that she had the same world view and understands why they do the things they do. In the 11 months that I have known V., I have tapped into her mind extensively to try to understand why the ex and Number 2 do the things that they do. V. and I talked for a bit on my way home from work, and not once did I suspect the adventures that were to follow. Before we hung up, she expressed a desire to go to Wal-mart with me to buy groceries after I put my kids to bed.
After I put the kids to bed, I called V. to see if she was still awake and wanting to go with me. She didn’t sound good. At all. She was complaining of abdominal pains, and thought it was gas resulting from what she ate, and was mad at herself for eating it, because the last time she ate this restaurant’s food (over the 4th of July weekend), she was sick to her stomach for the better part of two days. She told me it was more comfortable to walk around than to sit down, so she wanted to go, since it would require walking.
When I picked her up at her place, I was alarmed. V., who is 32, was walking like she was in her 80s, shuffling with slow and wobbly steps. When we got to Wal-mart, less than five minutes away, she was really in pain. She sensed that something wasn’t right. I suggested I take her to the hospital, but she refused, insisting that if she walked around a bit, she would be better. She was dead wrong. Before we bought the last of the fifteen or so items I had to buy, she was crumpled over the cart in pain and barely able to move. Not good.
We finished shopping as quickly as we could, and shuffled back to the Expedition. While I was loading the groceries, V. somehow managed to hoist herself into the front seat. She told me she was sweating and asked if I could roll down the windows. I obliged. She was still insisting I take her home. She then hung half her body out the open window as she screamed in agony. My mind was made up – we were going to the hospital.
After making sure that she was being taken care of in the ER, I drove the two blocks to her apartment to get her son, who was expecting his mother to come home any minute. We then drove to my house, and he (in his jammies) helped me unload the groceries. I immediately returned to the hospital. It was thirty minutes past midnight.
At the hospital, V. was still screaming in agony. I did the best I could to comfort her, but she still ripped my arm off like a ragdoll’s. (I am happy to report that with a bit of needle and thread, my arm is like new!) The attending physician turned out to be a friend of mine, which was a relief to V., as she knew she had a doctor she could trust. To make a long story short, they did a CT scan and figured out that the gall bladder was trouble. They admitted her to the hospital to begin antibiotic treatments, and it was pushing 6 AM by the time she finally got settled in a room and drifted off into a sedative-induced sleep.
I left, and went to her employer to let them know what happened. I went home, did the dishes and some laundry, and lay down to get an hour of sleep. An hour later, I woke back up, took a shower and changed. Then, I took her son back home to get a change of clothes, made arrangements for her son to stay at his grandmother’s house, he and I visited V. at the hospital, then the two of us drove the 75 miles to grandma’s house, I dropped him off, and then drove 75 miles back to the hospital. When I returned, it was pushing 2 PM. I went up to check on V., and when I was there the doc du jour dropped in to update V. about her condition.
Apparently, her gall bladder is bad. Very bad. Rotten to the core. So bad, that when the doc looked at the scan, he saw that gall bladder was holding her liver at gun point. So bad, that he saw the gall bladder beat her spleen black and blue. I mean, that’s one bad gall bladder!
