Two Days Out

I came uncortably close to dying this month.

As some of you may know, earlier in the month, I had emergency surgery to remove my gallbladder. For the six weeks, more or less, preceding the event, I’d been feeling horrible. No energy, cold sweats. Headaches, and, if you’ll forgive me, massive amounts of gas.

Things changed the day and a half before the spoose rushed me to the hospital.

For two nights before going to the hospital, I was wracked by incredible stomach pain. I felt like I was going to vomit and pass out simultaneously.

By midday on the second day, I decided that my wife should take me to the hospital. When I arrived at the emergency room, they began running numerous tests. We decided I had to have emergency surgery, but because my infection was so bad, it would have to be the next day. While they waited, I would have to be pumped full of antibiotics.

The doctor told me that my gallbladder was dead, filled with gangrene, and that I was septic. If I had waited any longer, my health would have been in severe jeopardy.

That night, while I waited for the antibiotics to work, was one of the worst nights of my life. I hurt badly, I was strung out on drugs, and I was so thirsty I was ready to kill for water. They had told me I couldn’t have water after midnight until after the surgery, which meant I had to wait from midnight until 1:30 in the afternoon. But thankfully, one of the surgeons came in at 5 in the morning and said I could drink as much water as I wanted until 10:30 am.

I loved her, and I never knew her name.

I don’t remember much about being taken into surgery. I was doped out on morphine, fentanyl, and Dilaudid. I sort of remember having the mask put over my mouth to go under, and after that, I woke up in recovery.

The joke was on me, though. That was the scariest part of the whole thing.

When I woke up, I thought that I was in an alien room and that they were trying to replace the pod person. I yelled and screamed at the doctors and nurses to let me go, and finally, one of them was able to convince me that it was just the aftereffects of the anesthesia.

I apologized.

I’m still embarrassed.

I was wheeled back to the recovery room, where I would spend that night and most of the next day. Those 36 hours were a gauntlet of pain. I had to have help to do everything to move my body, to go to the bathroom, to get a drink of water, and oh my God, when it came time to eat, that was torture.

I vaguely remember spending most of the time watching NCIS, New Orleans, and wondering why I’d never seen it before.

When I was finally released from that prison and sent home, the family had made sure to make the house as comfortable for me as possible. My spot on the couch was covered in a new blanket. I had my pillow, a footrest, and plenty of snacks that were good for me. It wasn’t heaven, but it was close to that in the coming days.

It took about five days before I felt normal again, and on the 5th day, I took out my own drainage tube because I was sick and tired of having it inside of me. I was supposed to wait another week, but the doctor told me that after 5 days, I really didn’t need it anymore.

It didn’t even hurt.

And that, boils and goals, is the tale of how Josh almost died.

- Josh (11-26-2025)