The pain is back, and much, much worse. I cannot move. I am collapsing

Motzaei Shabbos, February 6th 2021

My stomach is killing. Maybe it’s something I ate? Something is jabbing at my insides like the blunt edge of a knife. Nothing I try makes it feel any better. I guess for now I’ll try to sleep on it?

Sunday, February 7th 2021

I fell asleep in the end last night, though my dreams were short and creepy. Now my parents are out and I’m alone in the house. The pain is back, and much, much worse. I cannot move. I am collapsing. The knife is no longer blunted — it’s sharp and stabbing and beyond anything I have ever experienced. I call my parents and they race home, push me into the car, and take me to the Emergency Department.

The fluorescent lights make me blink as I stagger into the waiting area. It smells. There are all types and stripes here. Drunkards with bruises the size of footballs, anxious-looking pregnant women with their husbands. Screaming babies, children on iPads. Moans of pain, heated arguments between nurses and uncooperative patients. Everything hurts.

“We aren’t sure what’s wrong,” the sympathetic nurse says, six hours later, after we finally get to be seen. She looks apologetic as she hands a sheaf of papers to my strained mother. “We’re giving you transfer papers to go to another hospital to run some more scans. Get her there today.” So off we go.

By the time I get to the second hospital, I am screaming in agony. Pain meds are administered, then more, and suddenly I find myself hooked up to an IV. I am poked and prodded for constant blood tests. Scanned multiple times. And the questions, so many questions, which my mother dutifully answers, while I float in and out of a painkiller-induced haze.

I stay overnight, then I’m sent home with a kit of meds to help the pain, and a potential prognosis — surgery in two and a half months’ time. Apparently I’m supposed to be happy about this.