I left my appendix in Bengaloooooo-ru...

... not quite as catchy as Tony's Bennett's Heart/San Francisco version, but more factually accurate.  What began as a Thursday post-dinner, "ooh, I have a case of Delhi-belly," to a Friday night of, "ooh, I think I'm in labour but am not pregnant," to a Saturday, "not hungry, not sure why, not sick, but something's wrong..." ended up with me being admitted, feverish and rashy, on Sunday to The Manipal Hospital, suspected of everything from malaria to dengue fever to cholera (that will teach me to mention it on this blog!)

After extensive blood tests, x-rays, urine tests, ultrasounds, and a CT scan - and reluctantly being admitted to the luxurious 11th floor - it was quickly determined that I had an inflamed appendix - appendicitis - and it needed to come out.  (Image NOT to scale - and NOT mine!)

Redundant body parts:  I have a history of getting traditionally childhood diseases later in life - tonsils out at 21 and chickenpox around 25 - and of getting rid of unnecessary body parts - tonsils, being one, and I was born without wisdom teeth (you don't need them, we've progressed genetically since then) and even an incisor (when was the last time you needed it to chew up a carcass?)  So, getting rid of this useless 'appendage' was a no-brainer.  Except for the fact that I've never had a 'real' operation, nor have I ever had stitches (a fact I was quite proud of just a week ago... again, that will teach me to talk about these things!), and that it would severely curtail my extensive travel plans over the next few weeks!!!  Oh, and the minor issue that in the whole time in India I haven't even dared go to the dentist for fear of some hideous infection, let alone have someone slice me open, poke around inside, and stitch me back up again.

All roads lead to Yorkshire:  My surgeon, however, was pretty convincing.  A lovely man, who trained in the UK and of course, worked at Bradford Royal Infirmary in his time.  For those of you not familiar, Bradford is the curry capital of England and whenever I go home to Yorkshire, I head there for a curry and feel I have been transported back to Bangalore, although it has a greater Muslim than Hindu population.

Through the Keyhole:  In a speed not generally associated with India, I was whisked from, "ok, let's do it," to the operating theatre - via the cash payment desk and the 'nipple to mid-thigh shave' - in around an hour.  I was to be operated on laparscopically, which to you and I means, 'keyhole surgery,' not to be confused with the hit tv show, and would still be able to model for the Sports Illustrated calendar.  Should I ever be asked.

Luxury - at a price:  So, off I went, carted off from the luxury of the 11th floor - the categories of rooms at the hospital range from 'General' at $25 per night and shared with 99 of your closest friends to 'Super-Duper Executive Luxury Suite Type' at $300 per night.  We plumped for one at the higher end of the range, large enough to sleep hubby in the spare bed, but small enough that I didn't get exhausted walking around it.

Pecking order:  The surgery was 'uneventful' but, I'm told, absolutely necessary.  It was nasty inside there.  Words like 'puss' were used a lot.  Oh, and my colon had started to wrap itself around the nasty unnecessary organ.  Enough said.  And I felt quite perky afterwards, aside from laying in the recovery room for 2.5 hours alongside a woman who clearly didn't sound like she was recovering.  In fact, I thought a holy cow had wandered in there, the noises that were emanating from her.  And I had three requests.  In this order:  1.  I want to see the surgeon.  2.  I want to see the detached appendix.  3.  I want to see my husband.  I put this thoughtlessness down to the after effects of the anaesthetic.  But we'll never know.

Suffice to say that the 'third on the list' had heard of the successful surgery and run straight across the road to the luxury mall to buy me a fresh pair of my favourite PJs and some magazines.  Neither 1. nor 2. would have done that.  Without a doubt.

As I returned to my room, I felt comfortable, relaxed, and happy that I'd made the right decision.  And desperate for a cup of tea.  But that was not to be...

To be continued...