Goodbye Gallbladder, You Spiteful Little Gremlin
After months of behaving like a tiny rage-filled, bitter gremlin living under my ribs, it has finally lost tenancy rights.
For way too long, this organ has treated every meal like a personal attack.
English Muffins? Offensive.
Butter? Absolutely reckless.
A single chicken nugget? Straight to punishment.
Meanwhile, my body somehow accepted this horrifying cycle as everyday life:
Eat food.
Wait 45 minutes.
Begin ceremonial vomiting ritual.
At this point I practically run on a schedule.
“Oh sorry, I can’t make it after dinner — my digestive system has plans.”
And let’s not forget the gallstones.
The doctors call them “stones,” but that feels wildly too gentle for what has clearly been happening inside me.
I have not been passing stones.
I have been birthing rock babies.
Tiny demon gravel.
Spite crystals.
Forbidden marbles forged in the depths of digestive hell.
Honestly, I’m convinced my gallbladder wakes up every morning and chooses violence.
But the true peak of my gallbladder’s villain era was the ambulance incident.
One night the pain hit so badly I genuinely thought I was dying.
Not “I have a tummy ache.”
Not “I feel a bit unwell.”
I mean full-body, sweating, curled-up, seeing-God abdominal agony.
The kind of pain where you start mentally drafting goodbye messages and wondering whether your organs are actively trying to escape your body.
An ambulance was called.
Lights.
Sirens.
The full dramatic experience.
At this point my gallbladder was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.
I’m lying there thinking:
“This is it. This is how I go out. Taken down by my own hateful digestive system.”
And then…
THIS ABSOLUTE TRAITOR.
The pain stopped.
Not gradually.
Not slowly easing.
No.
It vanished.
Before we even arrived at the hospital.
Suddenly I’m sitting there in the ambulance looking suspiciously alive and embarrassingly functional while my gallbladder quietly pretends it’s done nothing wrong.
I could practically feel it inside me whispering:
“Interesting. No idea what she’s talking about.”
By the time we got to hospital I looked like someone who had massively overreacted to trapped wind.
Meanwhile my gallbladder sat there innocent as anything after staging a full internal assassination attempt 20 minutes earlier.
Honestly, the disrespect.
But WHO IS THE IDIOT NOW?
Thursday is coming.
Its reign of terror ends Thursday.
The surgeon will enter like a fantasy hero arriving to slay the Kingdom’s Most Useless Organ.
Somewhere deep inside me, my gallbladder will probably hiss:
“You’ll regret this.”
And I’ll whisper back:
“Enjoy the pathology bucket, traitor.”
Soon:
No more vomiting after every meal.
No more pain.
No more surviving primarily on rice like I’m rationing food during wartime.
No more wondering whether eating half a peanut butter sandwich is going to ruin my entire evening.
Instead?
Freedom.
Beautiful, greasy, cheese-covered freedom.
I’m talking bacon laiden pasta.
Garlic bread.
Hot chips.
Maybe even a burger eaten without fear.
Imagine eating food and then just…
continuing to live normally afterwards.
Absolutely revolutionary.
And as for my gallbladder?
So long, you foul little bile goblin.
Thank you for the trauma, the surprise vomiting, the ambulance bills, the rock babies, and your relentless commitment to ruining literally every meal I’ve enjoyed since 2025.
May your retirement in a pathology bucket be as uncomfortable as the lives you’ve given the rest of us.
You came into this world quietly.
You’re leaving it under surgical supervision and with a terrible reputation.
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