I remember 1998 as the gallbladder year, though most of the year had nothing to do with it.
The first attacks came after meals. A pain under my ribs, then nausea, then several hours in which no position made much difference. I blamed rich food, then coffee, then eating too quickly. The list of suspected causes grew. The attacks continued.
Alan told me to see the doctor.
‘I will if it happens again,’ I said.
It happened again.
The doctor arranged a scan. Gallstones were found, which was useful because the pain now had a name and a proposed solution. I was offered keyhole surgery to remove the gallbladder.
I had the operation later that year and stayed in hospital overnight. I will leave the medical detail there. I had several small dressings, discomfort when moving and instructions not to lift anything heavy.
At home, Alan took over meals. Claire was twelve and Michael nine. They were old enough to help and young enough to require separate requests for each part of helping.
‘Put the washing in the machine’ did not include switching it on unless stated.
Pauline rang from Eastbrook after two days. She gave me the office news and said everything was under control.
I believed the second part less than the first.
I took two weeks off work. During the first week, I slept, walked around the house and accepted food I had not planned. During the second, I began opening post and asking questions about school.
Alan said recovery would be quicker if I stopped trying to return before I had recovered.
This was reasonable and irritating.
When I went back, Pauline had kept a list of matters requiring my decision. The list was shorter than I expected.
The school had continued. The family had eaten. Nobody had used the wrong emergency contact form.
I checked the list twice anyway.