I know I promised hunting tales....

...but something unpredictable, and often taken for granted, took center stage this week: my health.

During my recovery, I've been debating whether to write about this particular experience. A lot of people consider health matters to be private and share such information with close family and friends only; I have not been so different in this respect.

But I wonder: why is it when our health is less than perfect, we keep it to ourselves as though there is some fault in being sick or having a physical abnormality? I suspect it is an inherent fear of being different that drives this behavior, although I can also understand the desire to keep some things private in an effort to maintain one's personal identity.

I have decided that for me, sharing will outweigh the benefits of keeping mum. My decision is seasoned by an ingredient essential to the diet of some writers: the hope of reaching others and maybe having a positive influence on their life. So I will share. I'll break down my medical journey into a couple of blogs - partly because you didn't come here to read a book, mostly because my pain medication only allows me to be alert for a few hours at a time....

By noon on Monday (November 23rd), the dull ache in my upper right abdomen had turned into a sharp pinch. This sharp pinch was turning into a painful barrier between me and my ability to take a deep breath or get up out of a chair. A month earlier, I had the very same experience, and I promised myself that if in 30 days this particular pain reemerged at this particular time - the second day of my menstrual cycle - I would go to the doctor. By noon on Monday, I knew I needed to keep my promise.

Four hours later, I struggled not to cry as my doctor pushed on the spot just under my ribcage that, in retrospect, I should have protected with some sort of armor. Puzzled, he asked a second time if there was any pain in my lower pelvic region.

"No," I repeated; his response was a wrinkled brow.

"And you only feel it during the beginning of your period?" he queried.

"Yes, and for the last four months," I dutifully answered (I had practiced on the way to the clinic).

But my answers didn't seem to be what he wanted to hear. Urine and blood tests had cleared me of liver disease or a bacterial infection. We were down to gall bladder malfunction or endometriosis. I wasn't surprised by either suggestion, as I had done online research during my second encounter with the strange pain. I was prepared - kind of.

After consulting with another doctor, mine decided I should do the same with a surgeon the following day. (In our small community, the surgeon comes to the hospital once a week, so if you have a reason to see him, it's best to try and catch him as soon as possible.) My doctor also sent me home with a prescription for pain medication - I think it was guilt therapy for almost making me cry.

Tuesday morning I received a phone call from a nurse at the hospital reminding me not to eat or drink because they weren't sure what kind of tests the surgeon would want to do on me. Mildly inconvenient, but ok, I could manage that. During the next call, she told me the doctors were consulting about my "case" and that I should plan to come in at 3:30 that day. No eating or drinking until 3:30?! Fine. I was already thirsty and nauseous from taking my pain medication without food, but I would tough it out until 3:30. This pro-active health stuff was starting to get annoying.

Then my phone rang again.

"Hi Amanda," came the now familiar nurse's voice, "your doctors and the surgeon have decided you will be coming in today to have your gall bladder removed!" (Yes, she said it as though it would be punctuated with an exclamation point.)

My thoughts raced: Wait! How did they know it was my gall bladder? I hadn't even come in for a consultation! Isn't there some sort of 24-hour-notification period before surgery?!

I'd never had surgery and I have to admit, the casual way in which my first under-the-knife experience was scheduled had me irrationally questioning the knowledge of three medical school graduates.

I mean, they could have at least softened the news by telling me I could have a cracker. Instead, I was quickly informed that anything ingested at this point would most certainly increase my sickness post-surgery. This day just kept getting better.