’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring … except the sound of me groaning in agony due to an unbearable stabbing pain in my gut.
It actually began several nights before Christmas – during peak festive mayhem. I was juggling Christmas parties, tree-decorating and buying expensive gifts for adults who didn’t need them. I’d also crammed in a last-minute gym session in an attempt to “make room” for the upcoming roasties, mince pies and morning coffee with Baileys. Initially, I thought I’d simply pulled a muscle and decided to walk off my strain with another bout of Christmas shopping. I cannot guarantee this did not make matters worse. By the time I got home, I was doubled over in agony.
My partner arrived back later to find me in the foetal position, writhing on the bathroom floor, tipped-out shopping bag of festive decorations strewn around me. It looked like a nativity scene crossed with a drunken night out. Despite his insistence, I refused a trip to A&E. Throughout the night, the pain got worse, until I was vomiting every hour and went into what we later found out was septic shock.
When I eventually conceded that perhaps we should call an ambulance, paramedics promptly hooked me up to an ECG machine but were unable to find a heartbeat. I was pretty sure I was still alive, but the machine disagreed. It turned out it hadn’t been plugged in correctly; only the paramedics found this amusing. My partner reeled, I vomited into the bin, and our cat, Hobbes, walked out in disgust.
When I arrived at the hospital, A&E resembled an office Christmas party planned by Satan himself, but I was glad to be in the safe hands of incredible doctors. Save your pity for my boyfriend, who didn’t know which hospital the ambulance had taken me to and was left to go out of his mind with worry when no one would tell him. Meanwhile, I had been given fentanyl and was high as a kite that had been given fentanyl, having a jolly old drug-induced wonderful Christmastime.
The surgeon was 75% sure it was appendicitis. I liked those odds, and so I was whisked to surgery, my appendix was removed, and I found myself back on the ward eating toast before you could deck the hall with boughs of holly. I was discharged the next day, but my Christmas plans were thrown into disarray: I was bedridden, could only manage to eat plain toast and soup, and I was under strict instructions not to lift anything for six weeks – including my beloved cat, not that I think he minded that much.
There were no boozy coffees, mince pies or roasties, but instead of fussing over decorations and wearing an itchy Christmas jumper, I completed The Witcher on the PlayStation and rewatched all of Nashville. And really, what’s more festive than that?
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