Vexed and irritated

gall
–verb (used with object)
to vex or irritate greatly: His arrogant manner galls me.

Raise your hand if you know what your gallbladder does. I bet there are only two types of people who have their hands up right now: those in the medical profession, or those who have had their gallbladders removed.

The good news: I am going to kick some ass in this round the Biggest.Loser contest at my work. I lost 5 lbs last week alone, and will continue to drop it like crazy for the next month or so.

The bad news: Eating has taken on a whole new meaning of pain. My gallbladder has become a traitorous, villainous, evil, spiteful, soon-to-be disposable, miserable little thorn in my side. Actually, in my abdomen.

We're going to cut the bitch out. It can't come soon enough, as eating baked fish and lettuce is getting old. I love both, mind you, but I'm weary of watching everyone around me consume fat. Fat, fat, glorious fat!! Oh how I love thee, I will see you again soon.

I got to spend a lovely 5 hours in the ER of my local hospital learning that I have gallstones. So many of them that neither the Doctor or the Radiologist were able to count them all. Guess what I was supposed to be doing at the very moment I was writhing in pain at said ER? Having a lovely lunch with the TOOTPU gals. Dammit, dammit, triple dammit.

I have to say that it was mighty weird to have so much bloodwork done, and such a lengthy sonogram, yet to have none of it at all oriented to my reproductive tract. That was mostly liberating and exhilarating, but also sort of disappointing. I'm a cycle junkie, I guess I miss it more than I thought.

Just to torture ourselves, while frittering away eons in the ER, Kevin and I got on the topic of a 3rd child. We both firmly agreed that we are thrilled with the 2 we have, and never ever plan on trying for more, but if I magically became pregnant, we'd be happy. Of course it would be like the immaculate conception since I am infertile, Kevin has a vasectomy, and we use condoms (a story for another day). So, let's just say the chances of me magically getting pregnant are slim to none. And slim just left town.

I have an appointment with the surgeon tomorrow. I assume that after that, they'll schedule the procedure. We are going on vacation for a week, starting this Friday, so it will be sometime after that. I'm just so happy to know what the problem is, I could cry tears of joy.

I plan to ask about a tummy tuck (or lipo) and some handiwork on my outrageously separated stomach muscles. In reality, neither of those two things are going to get addressed, I'm sure. But I can still dream. As it is, I won't be able to lift anything heavier than 10 pounds FOR A MONTH. Oh yeah, you read that right. A FREAKING MONTH. In case you were wondering, Liam weighs 22 pounds. Well, shit.

Before you ask, I'll tell you that I don't know what The Plan will be. We're going to figure that out on vacation. I guess I'll import my MIL for a while, hit up my teenage nieces when they aren't away at summer camp, call the 14 year old babysitter in the neighborhood who just put a flyer on our mailbox, and wing it.

Anyone out there thinking, "Why doesn't she call her own Mother?" The answer is that I would hack my own gallbladder out with a rusty butter knife then slather my children in meat juice and leave them in the care of rabid wolverines before I'd let my Mom watch them. Okay, okay, that's a little extreme. She's a possibility. She's just the proverbial Last Resort. For lots of reasons. That's a whole 'nother post, trust me.

By the way, Megan had taken to telling people, "Mommy's ballblather is broken." I snickered every time I heard it, but Kevin eventually made me correct her. Now she over-enunciates it: GALL-BLADD-ER. I've gotta find the humor somewhere, people.