Post-surgical rage

It’s been five days since my gallbladder removal. I just want to know if I’m going to poop my pants.

Everyone warned me fatty foods will send me running to the toilet. I asked every doctor and nurse if I was going to poop my pants. They all laughed and said no. They said I could eat anything. I don’t believe any of them.

So, I resolved to eat cautiously. I ate chicken and rice for two days. I iced my belly, and watched movies with my poodles.

Everything was fine… until the prednisone kicked in.

Low-fat dieting and 50mg of prednisone ARE NOT COMPATIBLE.

Even though I tried to taper the prednisone as soon as I could, my body is screaming for more food than my stomach can handle. On top of that, I am so angry.

I’m angry I can’t eat peanut butter cups.

I’m angry I’m in too much pain to make my own safe foods.

I’m angry nobody can tell me when I’m going to poop nor how violent it will be.

I’m angry nobody can tell me why my gallbladder was my latest mast cell disease casualty. (No gallstones.)

I’m angry I have to sit with this anger until it passes.

I’m angry that my anger is overshadowing the wonderful care I received all week from nurses and friends.

Finally, I am so angry that last night, as I took my dogs out to pee, my neighbor shouted from his patio, “How are you?”

I wanted to yell, “ARE YOU F%@$ING KIDDING ME?!?! I JUST HAD AN ORGAN REMOVED BECAUSE MY BODY IS DYING FROM YOUR LAUNDRY FUMES!”

I am so angry that nothing I could have yelled would have helped. I stomped off.

Soon I will poop. Soon I will feel better. Soon my neighbor will receive a lawsuit.