Appendix(es), Flat Tires, and Other Ways the Universe Keeps Me Humble
So I recently sent out a very confident, borderline smug email declaring that “everyone is doing fine and things are going exactly as they should.” I would like to formally apologize to the universe. Because apparently that is the exact phrase that triggers chaos to say, “Oh really? Watch this.”
Wednesday morning around 5:00 a.m., Chad’s phone starts buzzing. This alone is suspicious, because his phone usually lives downstairs in the kitchen. (A reminder to our children that if you really need us you should call the landline.)
He answers, and through my half-asleep fog I hear: “That sounds like a hot appendix. You need to go to the ER.” Now, we have played this game before. It did not end well. So immediately I’m thinking, one of us is going to Clemson. At least this time we were not in another country.
Chad flew down and met Cam at the ER in Oconee Memorial Hospital, and sure enough—appendix had to come out. Which raises two questions:
- What does an appendix actually do?
- Why are my children apparently treating theirs like optional accessories?
The only time I remember appendixes being removed before this family trend was in Madeline, and that felt more… Parisian and charming than these situations.
Chad calls with the plan. He has to get back to work, so I’m on mom duty. I decide I’ll drive to Clemson and stay the night. And I have the audacity—the audacity—to think, “Well, this is going much smoother than last time.” — Again. What was I thinking.
I pull onto I-77 and get that little internal whisper of doom. You know the one. The “something’s off but let’s ignore it” voice. I check the tire pressure—fine. Keep driving.
Then, out of nowhere, the tire pressure drops from 40… to 5… to zero. Zero feels aggressive.
I pull over on the side of the highway with semis flying past approximately three feet from my door, and I’m doing that calm internal monologue of, “Okay. This is fine. This is absolutely not fine.”
I get out to assess the situation and immediately discover two things:
- The tire is spectacularly flat
- I am in Chad’s fancy Mercedes, which apparently treats spare tires like a conceptual idea rather than a real object
Luckily, a group of surveyor guys in two trucks pull over and come to help. I give them my very confident: “I’m a Girl Scout leader. I can change a tire.” Which is technically true… in a quiet parking lot… without 18-wheelers trying to exfoliate me.
They very kindly ignore my speech and take over like professionals. One parks behind me with hazard lights (bless), they bring out a steel plate to stabilize the jack (what even is that level of preparedness), and we discover that this “spare tire” needs to be inflated. Because of course it does.
We get it figured out, and I’m back on the road, slightly rattled but deeply grateful. I try to offer them money for a beer, and they look at me and say: “No ma’am, we’d want someone to do this for our mother.”
Which is incredibly kind… and also the exact moment I realize I have officially entered “someone’s mother on the side of the road” territory. A humbling character arc.
I make it to Goodyear Auto Service, drop the car, swap vehicles, and finally head to Clemson. By the time I arrive, I learn there have been five appendix surgeries in Oconee County that day. Five. I asked if that was normal. They said, “Never.” So if you’re in that area… maybe skip the tap water for a bit.
Surgery went well (thankfully), and Cam had to stay overnight because of the late timing but was released before lunch the next day. He did not make it out of recovery until after 6 pm so the small hospital had already closed it’s dinner service and Cam was hungry. I knew he’d be fine when he told me what he really wanted was McDonald’s McNuggets.
I offered to bring him back to Fort Mill to recover, but he chose his apartment—which I respect, although I did quietly restock his groceries and clean like a ninja mom before leaving. Because that is, in fact, what we do.
He’s doing fine, no complications, and has now proudly joined his sister in the “missing an organ” club. I’m not sure what that says about the McGowan children, but it does keep things interesting.
By Saturday, Chad and I flew over to Clemson—because it was a beautiful day and because apparently, we now check on our children via small aircraft like extremely casual helicopter parents.
Cam is recovering well, back on his feet, and should be fully back to normal soon (by Monday). And as for me, I will no longer be making any public statements about how “everything is going smoothly.” We don’t say those things out loud anymore.