Dear Gallbladder: Let's work together to stop the hurt

Dear Gallbladder:

I've been thinking a lot about you over the last week whilst you were relentlessly stabbing me in the back. I'm disappointed in you. We've been through so much together; now is not the time to break up.

Of course, we might not have any choice. The doctor may issue a restraining order meaning that you and I will inevitably part ways. I will be alone and you will be in a glass jar someplace mothering all those baby crystals for time in memorial.

If this is the case, and we will know soon, I will accept my part in all of this. The drinking, the 2 a.m. smoked meat at Nate's, the T-bones on the barbecue. We've had some good times, haven't we?

I was the life of the party and you, well, you were the organ beneath my ribs.

I see now how selfish I've been. Putting my face in that pile of ribs was awesome, but I understand now what a sacrifice you made. Mixing up bile, spewing out stones, and I never even knew.

You suffered in silence while I bullied you. And for that, I will always been sorry.

You know I've tried to clean up my act over the past few years by eating healthy, watching my wine consumption and cutting back on bacon. But there is no real way to clear the history. You may have forgiven me, but you have certainly not forgotten my trespasses.

What was the final tipping point when you decided you'd had enough?

Was it the final yo-yo diet? Or did you just throw a little extra bile on the fire just for the hell of it?

Well, it worked. I've seen the light, or perhaps I should say, the light has seen me.

I promise to change, if you'll still have me and here's how I'm planning to do it.

Ergo:

• No more diets. I'm having a garage sale and ending my relationship with 20 years worth of self-help books that didn't help me at all.
• No more excessive drinking. I've sent back all the invitations to book launches, political conventions and weddings -- even funerals. Sorry Jim. There will be no long afternoon lunches or afternoons at the Brig where the food bill is only one third of the entire tab.
• I will drink more coffee, swill more beet juice and eat more salmon. No more late night runs to the Quickie for Haagen Daz. I swear. Okay, I'll try.
• Instead of sitting on my ass all day, I'll take up yoga and give you a little stretchy poo in the afternoon instead of watching The Chew.
• I will get rid of all the friends that you don't like, the ones who mean you harm -- all those gurus who are making money off of people who believe they have the magic pill to weight loss. Now I know you are my personal trainer. Thanks to you, I lost eight pounds this week.
• Finally, I will go into therapy. I've already made an appointment with the nutritionist who promises that she'll show us how to live together in harmony, naturally.

Finally, I want to thank you, gallbladder for all your years of valiant service. You've been swell and now you swell. I'm thinking of erecting a monument in the backyard in your honor, should you take the final walk down the Green Mile. The note will read,

Here lies my gallbladder
Long did she run.
Now she's hadder.
And I'm a bum.

I love you, gallbladder. I'm sorry I took you for granted. Come on, let's take the dogs out this afternoon. I'll buy you flowers. Let's work together to stop the hurt.

Your friend, Rosalita