Sitting in the waiting room of the Cambridge Hospital, things happen in slow motion. A baby (probably a bastard child) cries off in the distance. A bitter man yells at the receptionist for being slow. Out of the window, I watch the sun slowly set over the disgusting abstract art, undoubtedly installed during someone's temporary lapse of common sense and good judgment.
I am not afraid of the hospital. To the contrary, I quite like the atmosphere. So sterile, so clean. My friend, currently getting stitches, probably disagrees. To me, it's comforting knowing that it only took several minutes to get to the hospital and that my friends, riding on the T, beat us there. Yes, I rode in an ambulance. And it was glorious. For the purposes of brevity, I will not go into the intense feelings of freedom and power that come from riding on the wrong side of the road and plowing through red lights, but let me just say, wow.
I am afraid of getting appendicitis. For those of you that do not know, you have a pretty useless organ in your body. This organ, at any moment, can inflate to the size of a grapefruit and rupture, causing intense stomach pains, possible death and a pretty bad time overall. This happened to a friend of mine in high school. She was sitting in physics, minding her own business, when all of a sudden she had a terrible stomach pain. Being a diligent student, however, she chose to ignore the pain, assuming it was a ball of gas which would relieve itself to the dismay of anyone downwind.
It was not gas. It was not indigestion. It did not need Pepto-Bismol. To make a long story short, she was out of school for two weeks, suffered for hours because of several misdiagnoses and needed therapy for months.
According to Wikipedia, causes of appendicitis are "generally unknown," but most attribute the illness to a diet low in fiber or an infection that occurs when fecal matter (poo!) lodges appendix on the end of the large intestine. It becomes gangrenous, swells and ruptures, causing peritonitis, septicemia, and eventually, if untreated, death. This is where my fear comes in.
There is no telling when my appendix might decide to attack. I could be enjoying a tasty ice cream cone, skiing or just bumming around my room when it hits. I was at a friend's sleepover one night when I realized that if I was struck with this terrifying infirmity, no one would be able to help me. I imagined my friend handing me some Tums as I lay on the floor, gasping for breath and trying to crawl my way out of her house to the hospital. I could see myself being in altogether too much pain to reach for a phone and dial 911. And even if I did, how soon would they get there?
The emergency response in my town was known to be notoriously bad, primarily because officers were busy handing out tickets to people who did not come to complete stops at intersections. I would die somewhere along US-19, leaving behind me a trail of blood and tears.
It is a death so easily avoidable, so easily treatable. So why deal with the pain, I thought? I embarked on a journey to preemptively remove my appendix.
On a routine visit to a pediatrician, I politely asked the doctor if I could have a particular operation, simply because it would help me live a calmer, more productive life. Thinking I was alluding to breast augmentation or a nose job or some other cosmetic surgery, and assuming that I was a young adolescent in desperate need of an adult voice in my life, she replied with a cautious, open-minded, "Well, it depends on the procedure. What did you have in mind?"
"It's kind of embarrassing," I replied. "I just get so scared sometimes, and I feel like no one will be able to help me." The doctor was interested now. "I want an appendectomy."
The doctor erupted into laughter. I saw a slight look of disappointment on her face. "No one's going to take out a perfectly good appendix for you, Olivia. And I highly doubt insurance would cover it, either."
Well, it was worth a try. Visiting Tufts, a slew of new terrors entered my psyche. Realizing that the closest hospital was at the Charles/MGH stop, I imagined the arduous journey to the ER from Tufts. TEMs didn't even cross my mind.
I would be in my dorm on a lonely Friday night, with all my friends out at some ZN or ATO or DU or XYZ party, when the sharp pain stabs me on the lower right side. I stay calm and walk to the campus center, waiting 30 minutes for the Joey to arrive. I ride the Joey to Davis, gripping a pole, since the smooching couples are undoubtedly hogging all the seats. At the Davis T at midnight, the only person around to see me suffer is the obese flutist, who no doubt will eat me, because last weekend, I did not give him a dollar.
It is a sad reality that an organ that helped your prehistoric ancestors digest raw meats might decide to explode at any moment, possibly killing you and severely inconveniencing everyone around. Look at the people around you: If your stomach was exploding like Mount Vesuvius, would they take care of you? If not, it might be a good idea to give the flutist a few bucks.
