I got this a lot when I first announced that I was off travelling. It was repeated with added concern when people realised I was undertaking this trip solo. In fact, a look of disbelief and wonder usually crossed the face of the listener; I'd like to think that the disbelief was linked to my undoubted bravery, and wonder was caused by the thought of all the marvellous things I'd see. But in reality, it was probably disbelief that anyone could be that crazy, and wonder that they were even talking to such a nutcase unarmed.

But that's hindsight for you. At the time, my response was usually, "Oh no. Why? Should I be?" And thus paranoia is born.

I was not so much afraid, but rather apprehensive. Not of the trip, but of something far more subtle: irony. Yes, irony scares me. In my life, the truly disastrous things that have happened to me have always occurred in an ironic or coincidental way.

Like the time I went sky diving. On two successive weekends, I plummeted a combined height (or depth depending upon how you look at it) of 30,000 feet. That's a lot of feet. And I didn't get a bruise or a scratch. The following Tuesday, a mere two days after my final plunge, I was lying in bed and remembered that I'd left on the living room light. I rushed downstairs, slipped and fell two feet, and ended up with a cracked vertebra and the joy of two months of physical therapy at the hands of a sadist. For just TWO feet! Very ironic.

I am sure that however I quit this mortal coil will result in the following scene:
"That sure was tragic. I can't believe it."
"Yeah…so sad….but you must admit it was kind of…"
"Ironic?"
"Yeah. Ironic."

So, as I embarked on my round the world trip, I was sure that whatever calamity awaited me, it would not happen until I was safely ensconced back in my home.

Well it didn't quite work out that way. As the song lyrics go, some people go to a destination (e.g., San Francisco) and are so enamoured of the place that they feel like they have left a piece of themselves (e.g., heart) behind to forever connect them to the memory. Well, I went to Singapore but rather than leaving my heart, I left my appendix.

The day I fell ill will remain in my memory as a testament to the strength and determination of the human spirit given the right incentive. In this case the incentive being not to stay in a hospital in Krabi, Thailand, while suffering from a life threatening illness. Especially a hospital whose radio kept churning out the memorable Eagles lyric: "You can check in any time you like - but you can never leave".

This resulted in a desperate pillion ride on a motorbike to the airport in an attempt to make the only flight to Singapore for three days. And if anyone is considering riding on the back of a bike with a 100 plus temperature in the rain, I can only say that it’s not all it's cracked up to be.

Thankfully I made the flight, by 5 minutes. I then had to convince the staff at the airport that I was healthy enough to fly, despite their obvious misgivings, and the fact that at this point I was having difficulty remaining vertical. Eventually they agreed to my boarding the flight. At this point I was accosted by three very drunk American scuba divers. One was so obviously concerned by my extreme distress that he immediately hit on me. It is a confirmation of his optimism that he was not in the least discouraged by my losing consciousness occasionally. I think that he'd encountered this ploy before. And despite the fact that I was feverish, in pain and possibly delirious, I was still the most competent member of our group and found myself shepherding them through customs. With relief I caught a taxi from the airport and was immediately rushed to A&E. At least I knew I was safe.

Now the fun really began. The nurses wheeled me around, briefly abandoning me in various brightly lit rooms. Maybe they wanted to give me, a traveller, a tour of the facilities. Exhausted and happily sedated I just slept through most of this fun. Then occasionally a gaggle of doctors would come over and poke me and prod me in most unpleasant ways, and basically remove any frail wisp of self dignity I had left.

They chose to poke me repeatedly in the same place. "Does this hurt?", they'd ask. "Oww!", I'd reply. "How about now?", poking me in exactly the same place. "And now?" - again. I was never sure what exactly they thought would have changed in the two second gaps between their prods: "Oh thank you Doctor - you must have the healing touch - that excruciating pain has instantly disappeared and now it feels fine." Of course I wasn't quite so coherent. My main thought was, "Touch me there again and I'll punch you. Then ask - 'Does this hurt?'"

With their combined expertise and education, not once did any two doctors come up with the same diagnosis. Eventually, metaphorically scratching their heads - they left me in a ward.

The next morning the pain had gone. I was so relieved. The doctors all came round - and poked and prodded me as before - until one hit on the novel idea of rebound pain. Discovering whether I felt rebound pain involved pushing a hand down, hard, on the affected area and then letting go suddenly to see if it hurt. Believe me it did! Instantly they were all at it - and the phrase "perforated appendix!" was bandied around. Immediately, well once they had finished entertaining themselves at my expense, I was prepped for surgery. Then I was wheeled into more various brightly lit rooms, until I assume the nurse accidentally hit on the right one. After that, thankfully, I don't remember much.

I spent the next five days with a 100 degree temperature whilst various tubes were gradually removed from my body, and they stopped pumping antibiotics into me.

The nurses employed tactics to stop me recovering that the FBI would do well to pay attention to. They involved immediately dressing me head-to-toe in oversized pink pyjamas that kept threatening to fall down, and which required me to make a dignified 'prisoner shuffle' every time I needed the bathroom. They also stuck bits of metal in various parts of my body at random times during the day, gave me boiling hot water to drink, and waited until I had just fallen asleep to come over and wake me up and say in broken English, "Gay-Yael! Take temperature now!" The next day, the same nurse said with what seemed genuine surprise, "Gay-yael - always so sleepy!" In case the personal touch was not getting the job done, they ensured that the room was kept at that optimal temperature for recovery - 100 degrees Fahrenheit - and waved food that threatened to nauseate me further under my face. On the upside I was placed beside an old woman who permanently looked like a startled seal.

Finally, the fever passed and I was discharged, staged a recovery and continued with my travels. Albeit with one less organ.

And the irony? Before my trip, I had spent months undergoing tests to determine why I had a pain in my right side - just to find out that it definitely, unequivocally, categorically was not appendicitis. Maybe I'll laugh about it in years to come. Maybe.

Feedback:
"I like it a lot, excellent article" Andrew

"I loved it. Rarely does a piece make me laugh out loud (and cause my office-mate's head whip around like something out of The Exorcist), but this was good. And, surely as a bonus, my office mate has a stiff neck :o)" Jeffrey Hoyt

"Look on the bright side. You don't have to worry about your appendix ever again! Much enjoyed your story"