Free Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster by Kristen Johnston

precisely what I was going to do. No, no, no, oh my dear God. . .
    “Come on, miss, up, up, up, you go. Cheers, yeah, right, up on your feet, that’s right, I’m sure it’s right painful, here we go.. . . Well, you’re going to have to, no two ways about it. Miss, your screaming isn’t helping matters.. . . Keep on, there you are, almost. Right. Yes, yes, a few more steps. And here’s the lift. Just get on the lift, miss. And here we are. Now that wasn’t worth all the fuss, was it?”
    Imagine walking completely bent over, like an upside-down L. Imagine smelling what I suppose a decomposing corpse must smell like, and then picture being crammed into a tiny, airless moving closet with two people who are clearly already revolted by you. Imagine all of this while being in the most pain a human can bear while remaining conscious.
    Finally the elevator door opened, fresh air whooshed in, and for one brief and glorious moment the three of us experienced exquisite relief. I learned one new thing on the elevator ride from hell—if you smell so bad that you actually gross yourself out—man, you stink.
    Much, much later, when I first recalled these men and their awful carelessness and lack of empathy, thoughts of the elevator ride instantly filled me with an evil glee. I guess Vengeance via Olfactory is better than nothing. I’d like to stress that these are my perceptions of what happened to me, just as they’re my perceptions of people’s behavior at the time. Through this experience I discovered that when you get truly sick or are in a great deal of pain, it’s as if you’ve suddenly put on glasses that force you to see everything through vicious and cruel lenses.
    Truthfully, I don’t know if the cruelty and carelessness shown to me during this time was real, or if it was simply my pain and self-hatred that boiled over and tainted everything I saw and felt. I think that if my stomach had blown up during a yoga retreat at a Buddhist temple, I’d more than likely be writing about what assholes the monks were.
    Eventually with a crisp yet reluctant manner (which okay, that I get. . . no one wants to wear someone else’s dinner home to the missus), one of them lifted me up and heaved me into the arms of the other guy in the ambulance. Or lorry or trolley or tippy or proggy or foggy or pram or whatever cloyingly adorable fucking name they use. I wonder what they call a stretcher, because I sure as hell could’ve used one earlier. Then they strapped me into what, in my insanity, looked like a booth at Bob’s Big Boy. I’m sure it was a bed or something, but what are you gonna do, get all James Frey on my ass? It’s my stupid story, I say it was a booth.
    After they seat-belted the Big Girl to her Big Boy booth, they drove me “to ’ospital.” (They don’t say “the hospital.” They say “‘ospital.” Don’t ask me why, I’m from a country that believes in dentists and ice cubes.)
    As we made our way through the cobblestoned streets of London, my vicious saviors were oh so careful not to miss a single pothole or red light. I didn’t even rate that cool weee-waaaaaw, weee-waaaaaw, weee-waaaaaw sound.
    Much later I’d have to take a cab to ’ospital for checkups, and I couldn’t believe it took exactly six minutes. I’m convinced that (like a New York cabbie with an unsuspecting tourist) these fuckers took the scenic route. During the ride, I hoarsely begged them for something to ease my agony. How odd to actually mean it, for once. They gave me the gas they told me they give to women about to give birth, which helped not even a little. (But then, my tolerance was so high at this point, I don’t think an elephant tranquilizer would’ve made a dent.)
    The next while was a blur—getting to the hospital, being forced to wait endlessly until someone decided to help me. I was in a little curtained-off area of the emergency room, lying on a cot with my knees up to my chin, beyond freezing and terrified to