36 APPENDICITIS Grace Kohler Five hundred fifty-one hours, plus the evenings she spent with me before admittance Twenty-three days: January-February. The day before my sister’s eighth birthday. Five surgeons assigned to my case, two more residents. Three hospitals, one doctor’s office. Two surgeries. Two ambulance rides. One nasogastric tube, twelve days. One PICC line, ? (too many) days. Countless IVs, one burst. I don’t even know how many nurses, but she met them all and remembered their names. I felt sick Tuesday, January 15th, 2019. A minor stomachache, Mom had made me a large salad for lunch and my smoothie could have gone bad sitting on the counter the hour before. Stomachache turned to cramps—abdominal muscles squeezed into fists that won’t unclench. Dad asked me if I was just on my period, and I glared at him. He had to apologize later. We all knew after I threw up—every hour on the hour starting at four o’ clock. Two days later I was admitted—had surgery taking out my appendix that evening. We’re not new to how this works. My family, that is. One to be sick, one to deal with doctors, and one to hold down the fort. She was in the hospital for what felt like months. Maybe only a week. We got the meals for a while. It’s Dad’s job this time, to fit them all, like Tetris into the fridge. Instead of learning to cook, I became an expert in how to reheat pre-cooked meals and plate for the kids— leaving some for my dad, the note from one of the church moms magnet-ed to the fridge. I read all the Kindle books we owned during the space between when I put the kids to bed and when Dad came home. Those shadowed golden hours were my own, but unwanted. The black of the house crept into the studio, and the yellowed overhead bulbs glowed like circles of candlelight against the couch in my mind to ward off the dark. He’d told me I could go to bed before he got back, but he knew that wasn’t my habit, so he’d text me in advance to let me know if he planned on staying the night at the hospital.
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