I like my surgery like I like my eggs... ovaries-y.

I didn't spend the fourth running drunken through the streets wearing an American flag as a toga. I didn't even make my hosts classic American junk food. Instead, I spent Independence Day completely dependant on Great Britain and her National Health Service.

Sunday, I was admitted into Warwick Hospital's A&E. My body had been giving me warning signs of my impending womby doom as early as Friday, but by Sunday morning, I couldn't stand, sit, OR lie down. The best I could do was crouch in a worshipful pose and crawl from room to room like a lizard. At this point, after deducing that cutting beans from my diet wasn't going to put an end to the pain, I begrudgingly called a cab to take me to the hospital.

Never having been admitted to an American hospital, I can't compare the speed, price, or efficiency of the two health care systems. However, my time in Beaumont Ward brought to light two concrete differences between England's hospital system and all my experiences with medical care in the US. One; tea is administered as strictly as medicine. I was reprimanded for not finishing my tea on not one, not two, not three, but four separate occasions.
Two; awkward British politeness knows no bounds. Originally, I was admitted to the emergency room under the erroneous diagnosis of "bladder infection." This was because, as I crouched in front of the nurses trying to form coherent sentences, one had said, "Oh, love, is there something funny with your bits-and-bobs?" Thinking "bits-and-bobs" meant innards, I nodded feverishly. Apparently, in so nodding, I had just agreed that I was having difficulty urinating because of bacteria. The term "bits-and-bobs" was used to refer to my vagina and uterus by even the senior radiologist, who will enter this story in just a moment.

Since the staff thought I had a bladder infection, I was in the waiting room much longer than I should have been. By the time a doctor saw me, I was a literal hot mess. I stumbled into the cubicle and promptly puked on the floor. After several rounds of vomiting, the very surprised doctor told me he was going to get a specialist. I puked in relief.

I don't remember a lot of what happened next, though I do remember being obnoxious. Eventually, I got morphined and shut up a little. I had all the signs of appendicitis except infection in my blood (or something), and they were just gearing up to remove me old vestigial when one of the two specialists who were assigned to me (must have been a slow night) suggested that it might be an ovarian cyst.

You know how when you watch House, you feel like you're one of the doctors and it's really fun? Not as fun from the patient's perspective.

"Ithinkweshouldrunhertoradiologyandgetanultras..." "WHAAAAT'S HAAAPPENINGGGG. CAN I HAVE MR MORPHNNNN (sob)"

I would much have preferred to be the cool, collected doctor in the sharp pantsuit saying, "This is crazy, House. If it works, you're a genius."

So against EVERYONE'S better judgement, apparently,  because most of the staff thought my appendix was rupturing as they spoke, this one doctor convinced a senior radiology member to stay on his shift a few minutes late and do a quick ultrasound of my belly, just in case it was an ovarian cyst after all. I was whisked away, blubbering and tripping on pain meds. The radiologist was called Dr. Hughes. I heard it, I saw it on his tag, but what came out every time I tried to ask anything about the ultrasound? "EXcuuuse me, Doctor Who, but is that my lungs?" "Doctor Who, is that my kidney?" The staff couldn't stop giggling, which was infuriating and made me cry harder, which made them even more patronizingly tell me that my bits-and-bobs would soon be sorted out.

Thankfully, the other specialist was really kind, and while the rest of the team was busy looking something over, he took a few minutes to explain to me what was happening. A cyst had either formed around or near my right ovary. It had been growing for three to six months, and within the past few days, it had somehow twisted itself around the old eggsac and that's where my pain was coming from.

There was a good chance I would lose my ovary, because they could tell the cyst was pretty big. Mom and Dad were called and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and groggily trying to focus on a picture that was being shoved in my face.
"It was as big as a football! I've never seen one that big before!" The picture is disgusting. The cyst was over six inches and looks like an alien baby turned inside out.

From what I ultimately gathered, my body tried to released an egg which an Indian doctor referred to as "bery, bery stubborn." It clung to my ovary and grew and grew. I like to think it was trying to fertilize itself, the independent bugger. The surgery didn't damage my ovary. Yay?

Here's the weird thing -
You know those moments before sleep where you're not unconscious but you can't quiiiite control your dreams? Well, in the past few weeks, I've imagined myself in a hospital probably six or seven times during these pre-sleeping moments. I mean, I've had the thought before, what if I were in an accident, you know, but I don't remember ever vividly imagining myself in an intensive care ward prior to a month ago. I'd chalked it up to my subconscious processing being in a strange situation, trying to do something I've never done before, but after hearing a BBC 4 broadcast about the connection between nerves in your gut and nerves your brain, I'm wondering if my body knew something was seriously wrong before my mind was willing to accept the news.

Does this mean the end of this summer's show, everyone keeps asking? HELL NO, everyone. The show will be adapted, yes, but keep checking in with us.

Unfortunately, due to completely different but weirdly timed circumstances, our London venue fell through yesterday. So it's just the Warwick show.

I gotta go to bed, y'all. More updates later. I AM NOT UNHAPPY. 2012 BEST HAPPY SUMMER FUN TIME.  Hey, I'll get a cool scar out of the mix, anyway. Which is all a girl can ask for.