There are some things I take for granted: that when my car is serviced, the air in my tires will be checked; that when I buy free-range chicken, the bird was running happily in the grass right up to the moment the ax fell; and that when I go to my doctor with excruciating abdominal pain, she will, without prompting, examine my abdomen.
When I first noticed my pain three weeks ago, I immediately thought of a friend — well, an estranged friend; his wife and I had had one of those arguments you can’t take back — who’d posted on Facebook that he had abdominal pain and would probably need gallbladder surgery. Two and a half months later he was dead from an aggressive cancer. He was young — much younger than I am. And I knew it couldn’t be my gallbladder, because I’d had it removed in 2004. So after I felt a pain in my abdomen, I went back and read my estranged friend’s Facebook post. Was it the same pain? Should I make an appointment with my doctor? Who would take care of my dogs if I died? Would I ever see the ocean again?
