Recently I have had a perfect storm of predictive gallbladder symptoms: weight loss, high liver numbers, stabby little back pains. It’s understandable that I’d be sent to have my gallbladder checked out.
My gallbladder never gave me a moment’s trouble before. I expected that the ultrasound technician would reel in amazement when faced with the dazzling perfection of my gallbladder. Gary’s gallbladder famously exploded in San Francisco, my brother lost his gallbladder, my great-grandmother died because she took too much aspirin during a gallbladder attack. Happily, my gallbladder is a precise machine that dispenses exactly the required amount of gall.
Yesterday morning I got an ultrasound of my gallbladder and all of the adjacent guts. Guts are fine. Gallbladder functions like a dream. There are no stones.
There is, however, a polyp. The office called me at work to tell me about it, but I can’t recall what size they said it was. If they said 5 millimeters, then it is small. If they said 5 centimeters then it is large.
What I do know for sure is that I felt fine at work before I heard the word “polyp” — but after that, boy, I went on a decline. My belly swelled up, my back hurt, I practically walked around doubled over and eventually I just took half a sick day. Just from hearing the word polyp! Such a baby.