Gallbladder chronicles: the final chapter

Randi Kreiss

Spoiler alert: If you don’t want to know how it came out, read no further.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my prospective gallbladder surgery, and now it’s done. Not only was the operation a success, but the patient survived. I am gallbladder-free, a new member of the laparoscopic (isn’t it amazing what they can do with four holes and a fish hook?) surgery club.

Eight days post-op, I’m up and about, back to all activities and without any restrictions at all. That’s actually the problem. In the old days, they cut open your abdomen, you suffered in the hospital for a week or two, then recovered at home for two months. You got major sympathy and yes, major loot: beautiful nightgowns from friends and from distraught husbands, jewelry and promises of voyages and adventures.

In my case, I went into the hospital in the morning, they wheeled me into the O.R. at 8:30 a.m., the anesthesiologist told me to think about something pleasant and I was down for the count. While I was out, the surgeon — or maybe it was the pimply medical school student who scrubbed in — poked four holes in my abdomen, inflated my belly with gas, stuck in some chicken tongs and yanked out my gallbladder. By 8 p.m. I was at home in bed, watching “Deadliest Catch.” At first I looked as if I’d been hit with shrapnel. A week later, you can barely see any scars.

Because it went so easy, my pickings have been mighty slim. I scored a few flowers, some bath goodies, a book, and that’s about it. My friend who had a complicated kidney surgery last year got a Judith Leiber handbag from her friends and a trip to Australia from her husband. I got a weekend in Maine, off-season.

The greatest gift was that my kids came home from their far-flung locations. They ham-and-egged me, so to speak. My son came Sunday, stayed through the surgery on Monday and left Tuesday morning. My daughter came Tuesday morning and stayed through Thursday. I didn’t have to cook or do any of the mother things. Well, that’s not exactly true. Before the surgery I cooked the requisite boiled chicken for myself and baked cookies for the kids. That’s the real question in these cases, isn’t it? If the mother is the patient, who will make the chicken soup?