I had to take another trip to the ER Valentine’s night – romantic, I know – because of another attack of blinding pain. After a few of these, I was sure it was gallstones, but for some reason the ER docs kept wanting to do CT scans which, I’m told, won’t show gallstones. But this time I cajoled them into an ultrasound and, sure enough, I have a nice collection of gallstones.
So the doctor’s consulting with me before discharging me, giving me orders to follow up with my regular doctor and think about surgery. He says with gallstones I’ve got to be careful with my diet, and wanted to know if I’d eaten anything especially fatty that day.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I know this will shock my friends, but yeah, I’ve been eating healthier these days, cutting way down on my salt and fat intake.”
“What did you have for dinner?” the doctor asked.
“Healthy Choice,” I said. “I was a little lazy when I got home. But yeah, low fat. Healthy. See?”
“That’s fine. And what did you have for lunch?”
Oh shit. I forgot I had a breakdown of discipline that day. “Um. Er. Yeah. Um. A barbeque pork sandwich.”
“Fuck you,” the doctor said.
Okay, he didn’t really say that. But I heard him say it in my head. He really did remind me of Gregory House.