One of my least favorite things to do as an adult is going to the doctor. Every time I go because I have the weakest immune system in history, I feel like a small child. I circle trying to find parking, am dismayed at the fact I have to pay for parking, wander around like Moses in the dessert when I try to find the doctor's office, and sit there dying and confused while the doctor's talk over my head and give me steroid shots like it's my birthday. It is one of my least favorite experiences.

Two weeks ago I magically caught a stomach virus and spent my day throwing up my life into a toilet until I called my friends to put me out of my misery. *Fast forward two weeks later*

Well, for once I am on the opposite of the sickly situation. As I try to relax at the pool and forget my responsibilities, my best friend calls me and she feels like death. I can relate since I recently was curled up on my bathroom floor in a similar pain. I am like the typhoid Mary of stomach viruses. It sounds like what I had and with my future bachelors in Business Administration, I diagnose a regular stomach bug.

And I am so completely wrong. She cannot take the pain anymore, and without a regard to my wet bikini, we leave in pursuit of a clinic.

After paying for parking, the first clinic says that there is not a doctor available to help with her stomach pain. So we try again with another clinic, and she is so desperate for help that she is begging the clinic to take her cash to relieve the pain. And unfortunately they cannot help either and recommend the ER just up the street. I drop her off at the door before hunting for parking - which leaves me wandering around a hospital, visibly wearing my damp bikini, in search of my friend who is struggling somewhere in the ER. She gets called back shortly after six, and for another two hours, I sit in the waiting room with my dying phone and an episode of Master Chef.

I finally am called back, but all the doctors can say at the moment is that she is not pregnant. My medical evaluations have been wrong in the past, but even I could have told someone that. After a CAT Scan, she comes out diagnosed with appendicitis and we are both in for the long haul. With outside communication cut off by our dead phones, she goes into surgery within the next hour as her parents frantically race toward Birmingham from Illinois.

A few saviors came through with phone chargers and food and so I stayed over night at a hospital in my mildly damp bikini while my friend had her appendix removed.