I'm not in the Witness Protection Program, though I would find living on the lam in a motel in Tucson more pleasurable than what I am currently experiencing.

Since last November when I was hospitalized for a perforated appendicitis, I've been dealing with the aftershocks of a grenade going off in my tummy. Last week, it finally blew and mercifully the doctors at Methodist Hospital removed the troublemaker.

I'll spare you the boring details except to say that no one in the O.R. seemed to appreciate my idea to paint a fresco on the ceiling of the recovery room to resemble hell. Special thanks to the anesthesiologist who encouraged me to check out his talented daughter's music on SoundCloud before he knocked me out: "That's great! Could we not? I'm trying to do my positive visualization of puppies and kittens and coffee." If you've been put under before, you know how fantastically freakish it is; I am of the rare exception of people that doesn't have anxiety about general anesthesia. It's the best sleep I'm ever going to get.

While in the recovery room and existing in that floating space of still not being fully awake, the nurse would frequently walk past me and shout, "Breathe, Mary!" to which I responded, "Am I not?!" Geez.

Now I'm home with a pile of rock documentaries and books. The worst part is no Pug lifting for four weeks.

I'll be back on air when I'm standing upright and putting actual sentences together that halfway make sense.

Your friend and mine,
Looch

Resources

Appendicitis information (Mayo Clinic)

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