// a blog! bits and pieces of life

I curled up in agony, winching in torment.

For a moment, I thought I really was never going to make it. It was so impossibly tough to carry on, I had thoughts of giving up. Not the first; hopefully the last. That ordeal throughout the weekend had etched itself so dearly in my life's history I'll never forget the entire spate of events.

It was the 31st, a Friday which all of us gladly looked forward to. It wasn't because of the start of a new month, but being freedom-conscious workers, it was actually the weekend approaching. I was, as blindly as ever, swallowed by the whole TGIF atmosphere it never dawned upon me that day, the last day of July, marked such a terrible start to the weekend.

I donned my Team JJ Squash Jersey, gleefully making my way out of my camp, anticipating the wonderful afternoon ahead playing Squash with my friends. It was a perfect day, - perhaps too perfect to be true. It was five minutes past four, and I had only just alighted at a bus stop near my alma mater. As I took steps down from the stairs of the bus, steps on the concrete footpath that was only recently constructed, steps across the junction that handles the never-ending flow of vehicles, and steps leading right to the front-gate of the college, it came.

A subtle, yet unavoidable tinge of pain streaked across my abdomen, taking me by the utmost surprise. I had been on such a clean and healthy diet for weeks before, nothing could explain this surreal yet realistic surge of panic and emotion. I dismissed it, assuming my intestines just playfully twirled without harm. From there, nothing surfaced throughout the Squash matches and little chit-chats I had with my friends. It was just me, over-imagining things. Or so, I thought.

The sky was setting in with a tone of dark blue, welcoming the night darkness. It was half-past six, and the gloomy atmosphere didn't make things any better. I had settled down nicely in the corner of the bus, making plans to meet my clique for dinner. My afternoon had gone on well, and the evening looked promising too. A nice dinner, complemented with updates on each other's lives - it was a long-missed occasion, and had spiced up my mood to welcome the silent night.

As much as we want things to go our way, it never, or very seldom, happens. Dinner meet-up was no exception, so I wasn't the slightest surprised, or even disappointed. It was getting hard to keep our schedules in sync. Dinner was a lonely two-person affair, and we just settled down at a food store near my residence. By then, the pain had become annoyingly noticeable. As usual, I dismissed it thinking it would settle down when food was served. Hunger, perhaps?

It was only halfway through the meal, that I begun to accept the realism of the pain. It had undesirably made it stand of not going away, and I was left with no choice but to request dinner with haste, so I can rush back home in anticipation for the toilet. No, it wasn't for the sake of shitting, but I was consumed by nausea. And so I began flushing out my insides, in multiple successions, until the last was out. I had effectively rendered my earlier meal useless, for everything went down the pipes. I thought this would allow some respite from the discomforting pain.

I laid down on the bed, hoping for the pain to subside. Gulping down cups of water, hoping the fluid would ease the intestinal movements. It was all in vain, and the pain only intensified. I scavanged the house for some painkillers, and ended up downing a packet of powder meant to ease the stomach and its areas, promoting digestion and all. With the clock striking nearly eleven, without any medicine or painkillers, I could only persuade myself to last through the night, with great hopes of a better morning. And so, I didn't manage to sleep the whole night.

The sky lightened up at dawn, and I was still desperately trying to alleviate this tiresome pain. When morning broke, I rushed to my mother, hoping she would have some form of medication I could take. At that point in time, I was willing to take anything. I could've felt my eyes tearing in joy when she held a packet of tablets meant for abdominal pain. It meant immense relief for my stomach, and I hastily swallowed the tablets with gulps of water. And the morning zoomed past with me finally getting some well-deserved rest. The medicine had worked, I thought.

With the scorching sun rays infiltrating my room, I was finally able to embrace and appreciate the warmth contrary to the despondent cold the night before. The pain had prominently subsided aplenty, but it was still undeniably there. In addition, my nausea had gotten worse - I had promptly vomitted out everything I consumed; from water to food. It was half past three, and I was pretty disinterested in the pain given the rightfully enjoyable weekend. Yet, I was finally persuaded to make a trip down to the clinic, to get some proper medication for this hateful pain.

At the clinic, after pointing out the location of the pain in my abdomen, the doctor promptly suggested appendicitis. Now, that wasn't anything new at all. Fact being for the past five to six times I've been to the clinic with abdominial pains, doctors had pointed out the possibily of appendicitis. But every time, it had clearly ended up in a case of unfortunate gastric flu. It had never ended up in appendicitis, or so the track record shows. Needless to say, it was only normalcy to think gastric flu again. I was given some medication which served as a painkiller and to ease the nausea.

After consuming the medication, with plenty of water, the pain had subsided much more. I was never feeling nauseous again. It was as if things were finally taking a turn for the better. Of course, I gave no chances and proceeded to lie on the bed again. If this was going to be the final stage of recovery, I was going to make the best out of it, leaving no loopholes.

But as I said, things hardly go the way you want them to. At half past eight, the pain suddenly surged. It was as though a Magnitude 10 earthquake rose from the epicenter of a Magnitude 2 earthquake. Not a very apt analogy, but point proven. I was suddenly consumed by so much pain I could hardly move. It wasn't anything similar to the pain before. It was a much more terrifying and unfathomable pain. I curled up in agony, winching in torment.

My parents immediately brought me to A&E. Our first stop was at Alexandra Hospital. A&E stood for Accident & Emergency, and I believe there indeed is a grey area when it comes to determining what is an emergency. Ultimately, it's up to the nurses call to decide if a case ought to be admitted immediately or put onto hold, deeming as second-priority. Now, I didn't fully understand the guidelines by which the A&E staff abided by, because they had apparently assumed my evident pain to be not important. A lady who has a cut on the finger, contrasting with my obvious torment, which would warrant an emergency case? The nurses at the above-mentioned hospital voted for the former. I was put on hold. I was experiencing the worst nightmare of my life (although having been through only 19 years), and it was not even deemed more severe than a cut on the finger. That was quite a shocking revelation.

Thirty minutes had elapsed, and I was still not registered, despite my father making futile attempts to raise the urgency of my case. It was enough for me, and enough for my parents. They took back my 11B from the counter (which at this point in time, was still left on the waiting list), and brought me to Gleneagles Hospital instead. There was too much a difference in the treatment. I had only gotten down the car, and the nurse hastily brought me to sit down on the chair, taking my vitals. Within the next ten minutes, I was laid down in a holding room, where the doctor had been called immediately. Everything happened in swift succession that within 20 minutes, I was given an injection with pain killers. For the first time in the past 2 hours, I was able to lie down normally, in a relaxed posture. Albeit still with pain, it was so much less severe I smiled, thanking the doctor.

I pointed out the possibility of appendicitis, and the doctor proceeded to do a routine blood test. It was all done so efficiently I could imagine myself dead, if I had waited back at Alex Hosp. Thirty minutes later, the blood test report came back - and it was not normal. My blood was abnormally high in white blood cells count, and we decided to call down a specialist. It was approximately after another thirty minutes, did he come down. I was not too concerned about the waiting time, since the pain killers had worked such magic. And after his inspection, my fear had come true - I was diagnosed with appendicitis.

It was half past ten, and I barely had energy from the past ordeal of torment. The specialist had immediately ordered for my admittance into the hospital, and had also promptly arranged for an operating theatre. I was going to have an operation at twelve midnight. The realization shocked me terribly. But, I was already half-dead, seeking for any form of salvation. Come what may. I was wheel-chaired into my ward, and changed into the typical patient clothings. This was all too fast for me to grasp, but I had just given in to fate, killing off all attempts to fully comprehend the situation. For the next hour, I laid in bed with my family beside me. I had lost track of accurate timing, for suddenly, I was transferred to those mobile-bed things. Time for the operation.

Appendicitis is a condition characterized by inflammation of the appendix. It is a medical emergency. All cases require removal of the inflamed appendix, either by laparotomy or laparoscopy. Untreated, mortality is high, mainly because of peritonitis and shock. Reginald Fitz first described acute and chronic appendicitis in 1886, and it has been recognized as one of the most common causes of severe acute abdominal pain worldwide.

The nurses wheeled me into the operating theatre, and it resembled the ones on drama serials. The big glass lights above the operating table, the metallic operating table itself, and the whole tray of tools. I was scared. I was scared of what was going to follow. They were going to cut me open, to remove the appendix. Those were the thoughts of the immature me, one who was still new to operations and what nots. I had never expected myself to end up in one myself, and I was completely mentally unprepared. The waiting time in here felt extraordinarily long; minutes felt like hours. It felt like almost eternity.

Then, a female doctor came, and told me she was my anasthetist. Her exact words were "I'm going to put you to sleep". I was actually very terrified by those words, since they often had the connotation of euthanasia. I was expecting something more gentle, like "I'm going to give you some anasthetics, so you won't feel a single thing." I was, so afraid. She gave me some fluids through an injection, and then covered my nose and mouth with a mask releasing pure oxygen. And before I knew what happened, my consciousness faded.

For that one odd hour, I was being operated on. They had made three holes into my abdomen, using laparoscopy techniques to remove the infected appendix and clean up the pus.

When I regained consciousness, I was being wheeled out of the operating theatre. By then, I was in such a drowsy state I didn't know what happened. Before anything happened, I lost consciousness again. This time, it was a long sleep.

I opened up my eyes, watching the warm blue sky lightening up. I was so affectionately shone on by the morning rays. As I looked at my abdomen, I saw three huge wound dressings, presumably the holes created during the operation. I was pleasantly surprised that everything was over, that I had lived through the whole ordeal.

The events that ensued weren't of much important anymore. It was almost being brought back alive from death, and I only smile faintly to welcome the better future, without the appendix.