It was my last semester of college and as I drove up to FAU for a night class I felt a sharp, sudden abdominal pain. The pain was bad enough that I gasped, but it was gone so quickly that a moment later, feeling fine, I convinced myself that I had imagined it. It came back when I stood up after class, this time so severe that I doubled over and moaned, and as I drove back home the pain in my right lower abdomen was constant, punctuated by sudden, knife-like stabs.
I must have looked pretty bad when I walked into the house because my mother actually got out of her chair, something she rarely did when she was watching “Knots Landing.” I told her my symptoms and she lightly touched my lower belly. A minute later, after she had pulled me down from the ceiling, we were on our way to the ER. “It’s your appendix,” she said firmly.
The ER doctor said I had indigestion and told me to go home and take Pepto-Bismol. Mom disagreed and they began to argue. The last thing I remember before I passed out was my mother furiously demanding a second opinion and the doctor saying, “I’m the doctor here” and Mom distinctly saying, “No, you’re a quack.”
When I woke up I was in the recovery room and, minus my appendix, I felt wonderful. I learned later that my feeling of well-being was the direct result of Valium and liquid morphine, both liberally administered. My mother and older sister were there and I only heard snippets of their conversation: “Appendix burst.” “Peritonitis.” “He’ll be fine.” And, inevitably, “What a quack.”
Next time I opened my eye I was in a regular room; it was morning and my mom was still there; she looked tired. “No, you can’t go home,” she said, “you’ll be here several days.” I shrugged; warm and cozy and comfortable I fell back asleep.
When I opened my eyes again it was early afternoon; Mom was gone and my older sister was back. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“It hurts,” I said, cautiously feeling the bandage over my incision.
“Are you hungry?” she said anxiously. She lifted the cover off my lunch plate and when I saw a plate of cold, greasy, stuffed cabbage I began to dry-heave. My sister hastily put the cover back on the plate. “I guess not,” she said.
She was outraged. “You should have tea and toast,” she said. “Who serves stuffed cabbage to a sick person?” She thought for a minute. “What’s for dinner? Fried carp sandwiches?”
This struck me as funny and I giggled, then I winced: it really hurt to laugh. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “You’ll burst your stitches.”
Then she turned serious. “I guess it could be worse. They could have given you Spanish Rice.” My mother made Spanish rice when she was mad at my father. It was a vile concoction that resembled canned cat food and green peppers over rice, and remembering I laughed out loud, probably the worst thing I could do. “Ow-ow—ow-ow,” I said, my hand over my incision. “Please stop,” I said.
“I’m not doing anything,” said my sister, “I’m serious.” She paused. “They may as well have given you curried duck.” Mom’s “curried” duck was made with orange marmalade, applesauce and raisins and was so bad that even the dog would not eat it. Determined not to laugh I pressed my lips together and squeezed my eyes closed, but a little giggle escaped anyway.
But my sister is a whore for laughter and once she perceived she was on a roll, even in front of an admittedly captive audience, she could not stop herself, and so she began listing our most hated childhood dishes. “They should have just served you salmon croquettes,” she said and I threw back my head and howled, helplessly holding my stomach.
“With creamed peas,” she continued, and now I was laughing so hard that I was crying, and my incision was really hurting, in spite of the morphine.
“Stop laughing,” she said sternly as I tried to compose myself, “you’ll bust a gut.”
She was silent for a moment before she asked, “Why not whip up a big bowl of ‘canned tuna with olives,’” she mused and now I was weak from laughter and my breath came in short, hard gasps; it felt like my stitches were going to come apart. I tried to compose myself and had almost succeeded when she said, “Or some boiled eggplant.” By now I was laughing so hard and it hurt so bad that I was afraid I might wet myself. “Please stop,” I begged when I could speak.
She saved the best for last. “How about some cream of codfish soup?” she asked and now I was laughing so loud, and was in so much pain, that I was in real danger of passing out.
Just then the doctor walked in; he was not amused. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “I could hear you down the hall.”
My sister couldn’t help herself. “Do you like curried duck?” she asked innocently.
“What?” said the doctor testily.
“Duck,” said my sister. “You know, ‘quack, quack?’” Without a word the doctor turned and fled, our laughter following him down the hall.
Eventually we both quieted down and I marveled that my stitches held after all. “But I am a little hungry,” I said. “You think I could get some Saltines?”
“I’ll ask the doctor for some ‘quackers’, ” said my sister.