✨ The Great Gallbladder Incident of 2023 ✨
A Long-Overdue Confession
I’m going to be honest with y’all — this story has been sitting in my drafts folder since 2023, collecting dust like that one kitchen appliance everyone swears they’ll use again “someday.” I did post it sometime in 2023, but feel it needed it's own blog.
But here’s the thing:
Some stories aren’t just stories.
Some stories are sagas.
Some stories are adventures.
Some stories involve bodily betrayal, emotional collapse, nuclear medicine, strangers touching your insides from the outside, and a fart so perfectly timed it deserves its own plaque.
This one?
This one has all of that — and it’s far too good, too chaotic, and too quintessentially me not to share.
So why now?
Because time has finally softened the terror enough that I can laugh — loudly, inappropriately, from the diaphragm — at the absurdity of it all. And because if you’ve ever had a medical scare, an unnecessary panic spiral, or a moment where your body decided to pretend it was auditioning for a medical drama…
you’re going to understand this on a spiritual level.
And honestly?
2026 Shawna finally has the emotional distance to tell 2023 Shawna’s tale without breaking into sweaty PTSD flashbacks or needing a paper bag.
So buckle up, buttercup.
Here comes The Great Gallbladder Incident of 2023 — unfiltered, unedited (emotionally), and undeniably on-brand.
December 29th — The Pizza Premonition
It all started with pizza.
Which, by the way, is not how any story should start unless it’s wholesome. Mine? Absolutely not wholesome.
We ordered pizza and breadsticks for dinner. I took one bite of pizza, one bite of breadstick, and instantly told Damian:
“I don’t feel right.”
Now, “not feeling right” can mean many things:
- impending cold
- mild food regret
- existential dread
- or, apparently, gallbladder mutiny
This was none of the above and somehow all of the above.
I wasn’t sick.
But I sure wasn’t well.
Nauseous, but in a spiritual, abstract way.
It was like my insides whispered,
“Girl… something’s brewing.”
And not in a cute, coffee-scented way.
December 30th — Breakfast Betrayal & The Fainting Victorian Woman Era
The next morning, we grabbed breakfast before a doctor’s appointment, and about 30 minutes after eating, I felt like the world tilted sideways.
I stripped down to a tank top like I was about to audition for a commercial called “Menopause But Make It Dramatic.”
Forty minutes later, I was short of breath and felt a crushing weight on my chest — like my own body was trying to smother me with a weighted blanket set to “murder.”
“I think I’m having a heart attack,” I told Damian.
Damian: Should I call 911?
Me: Absolutely not. It’s only two miles up the road and an ambulance bill could fund a used Honda Civic.
We drove.
The ER — Also Known as Stress Olympics
One man in the waiting room. Good sign.
I fill out paperwork. Good sign.
They call me back immediately.
Bad sign. Very bad sign.
I stand up, get dizzy, and suddenly I’m being wheeled away like a contestant in a game show I did not sign up for.
Behind a curtain, I’m instantly surrounded by:
- lab techs
- EKG techs
- sonogram techs
- blood-drawer dude
- triage nurse
- two doctors
- and a partridge in a pear tree
Them: Tingling or numbness in arms?
Me: No.
Them: Short of breath?
Me: Yes, also feels like someone my size sat on my chest.
Doc: Your humor is intact.
Then came the abdominal poking tour.
When he pressed my upper left side and I winced, I may or may not have referred to him as “doctor face.”
I regret nothing.
CAT Scan, Panic, & The Diagnosis That Nearly Took Me Out
After the ultrasound and tests, the doctor came in:
Doc: “Your gallbladder is extremely infected. There’s a stone blocking the tube. We need to admit you for possible surgery.”
Me: “Do what now??”
Color left my body like it was clocking out for the day.
Dana raced from Plant City.
Damian looked terrified.
I mentally prepared my will.
Then came the transport speech: If I drove myself, I'd be discharged.
I started scanning the room for escape routes.
He threatened me with the words “rupture” and “life-threatening.”
Damian said, “Let them admit you.”
Fine. FINE.
I surrendered.
The Dark Night of the Lonely Hospital Soul
Transport. Darkness.
Parents couldn’t come.
Damian went home.
Dana was gone.
I was alone.
Really alone.
The kind of alone where even the hospital walls seem to hum ominously.
I cried. Hard.
The kind of crying that makes your soul leak.
Calls and texts rolled in.
My replies were short.
And if you know me, you know:
My misery does not like company — but I appreciated every message.
December 31st — Enter: The HIDA Scan Saga
Next morning:
Doc: CT and ultrasound contradict each other. We need a HIDA scan.
Me: The whodaWHAT now?
Doc: Open MRI-ish.
Me: …cool cool cool.
As they came to get me, Damian texted that he and my parents were on the elevator.
The elevator doors opened, and suddenly, the world made sense again.
Joy — honest-to-God, full-body, 3/4-heart joy — washed over me.
Then it was off with Tech John to the scanning room.
Me, the Thin Table, and the Fart Heard Around Radiology
John told me to lie on a thin black strip of a table clearly designed by cruel people.
Me: This?
He nodded.
Me: Sir… the math is not mathing.
John: “Your arms can rest on these attachments.”
Me: “What about all this ass?”
But I climbed up anyway, because at this point, pride was a distant memory.
Then the nuclear medicine went in.
It traveled directly to my bladder and butthole.
Warm. Intense.
And then… a poot.
I laughed so hard I shook and let out another poot.
John said, “Farts are funny.”
He is forever my people.
Results: The Plot Twist No One Asked For
HIDA scan: clear.
Bloodwork: normal.
Vitals: perfect.
Diagnosis: I’m just fat.
Rude.
Correct.
Still rude.
January 7 — The Plague Descends
Damian gets sick.
Then I get sick.
Household score:
Colds: 2 | Us: 0
Shout-out to Puffs with lotion for saving lives.
Mid-January — Finally, a Reset
Finally saw my parents.
Went fishing.
Ate a real meal.
Felt the sun.
Felt… human.
2023 may have started off bumpier than a gravel road, but like every day and every year:
We take things as they come.
When you’re down,
the only direction left
is up.
The Dramatic & Humorous Finale
And so, dear readers, that was The Great Gallbladder Incident of 2023 — a saga of medical mysteries, emotional meltdowns, and my internal organs attempting a violent coup.
Did I nearly die?
Possibly.
Did I behave like a Victorian widow in a hospital gown?
Absolutely.
Did I fart in front of a trained medical professional who took it in stride like a hero?
…Yes. Yes, I did.
But here’s what I know for sure:
If 2023 taught me anything, it’s that life will absolutely throw hands — out of nowhere, mid-pizza, and with zero warning. Your gallbladder might betray you. Your body might stage a protest. Your loved ones might have to sprint through hospitals like it’s Grey’s Anatomy but with significantly worse lighting.
And yet…
You’ll survive.
You’ll laugh about it later.
And you’ll come out with a story so dramatic it practically writes itself.
So, here I am — three years later — finally sharing it, because enough time has passed that I can chuckle without breaking into a cold sweat, and because if I had to endure this nonsense, the least the universe can give me is good blog content.
In conclusion?
I lived.
I learned.
I lost a little dignity in a nuclear medicine department.
And I will never take pizza for granted again.
May your gallbladders behave, your scans be clear, and your medical adventures be minimal.
Author Note (aka: The Part Where I Confess Things)
Hi, hello, it’s me — the proud owner of a gallbladder that almost tried to assassinate me.
A few clarifications before you go:
- No radiology techs were harmed in the making of this blog post.
- My gallbladder has since been warned that any further shenanigans will result in immediate eviction.
- I am pleased to report that the “thin black strip of a table” is still out there ruining someone else’s day.
- Yes, the fart was real. No, I will not be taking questions.
- And yes, I’m aware this entire event could’ve been an episode of “Medical Mayhem: Florida Edition.”
If you enjoyed this tale of terror, trauma, and surprise flatulence, feel free to follow along — because knowing my life, there will undoubtedly be another medically dramatic fiasco someday.
Until then,
Stay healthy, stay hydrated,
and may your internal organs mind their business.
– Shawna, Survivor of Culinary Choices, Medical Drama, and One Heroic Radiology Poot
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