Thanksgiving has often been called the “Most American” of all holidays. I think this is because if there is one day of the year where you are allowed to eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and as much as you want, and no one can say a damn thing about it, Thanksgiving is that day.

Add to that the potential for more than nine hours of NFL football on TV, and you have what is just about he perfect day of overindulgence. It’s even often enough to help you get through any of those stereotypical awkward moments with family members who you might see just once a year and haver really nothing in common with.

And, like every Thanksgiving, the day culminates with the cutting into of the turkey. Unless, you are the turkey that is getting cut into.

Which is what happened to me, 30 years ago.

Back in 1994, I was working in Japan as a English teacher. It was a pretty cool experience. Japanese people would all take English in school, but wouldn’t learn how to have simple conversations in the language. They could read Hamlet, but they didn’t learn how to ask someone for directions to the nearest McDonald’s. Or, how to order at that McDonald’s. That’s where I, and hundreds of of other native English speakers came in. Our lessons were all about everyday “conversational” English—situations like ordering a Big Mac meal at McDonald’s, or talking about what you did over the weekend.

I had been in Japan for a little more than two years, and I was planning on what would be my second trip back to America, and first in a year. It was to be a two week visit, with a few days being with my parents, in Tacoma, Washington, and another week in Virginia and North Carolina. Part of this segment of the trip was because I was to do a reading in a friend’s wedding in Virginia. My mom was also flying out to Virginia to visit her sister, and we figured that we would all drive down to my grandmother’s house in Sparta, North Carolina, for Thanksgiving. After the feast, we would reverse the trip, go back to Virginia, head to Tacoma for a few days, and then I would return to Japan.

But, before all of that, I had a ham sandwich.

This was early in our drive from Burke, Virginia, to Sparta, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. It wasn’t long after I ate this ham sandwich that I began feeling some pain in my stomach. I didn’t think much of it; I typically have a cast-iron stomach, and I figured it was just gas or indigestion and would pass soon enough.

Six hours and a few cans of Sprite later, I was rolling around in the backseat of our car as waves of pain surged throughout my guts. We got to my grandmother’s house in Sparta (Population: 2,000, on a good day) and weren’t there for long before we went to the local community hospital. 

The ponytailed hippie doctor said there was nothing wrong with me, but still decided that what I needed was heavy dose of narcotics. He then jabbed a needle into my hip and shoved enough dilaudid into me to make 1972-era Keith Richards blush. All I remember after that was the shot felt like a donkey had kicked me, and immediately throwing up.

The next morning was Thanksgiving. And I wasn’t feeling any better. My mom and aunt somehow managed to get me into the car, and we drove about 30 miles down “the mountain” to the Hugh Chatham Memorial Hospital in Elkin, North Carolina. And that is where X-rays and other tests determined that I had a growth on my small intestine called a “meckles diverticulum” and this was what was causing the majority of my pain. To add much more injury to this holiday insult, this growth was pressing on my appendix, which was about to burst.

And before too much longer, Dr. L. Howard Nabors was prepping me for surgery. As much agony as I was in, I still remember the doc’s name, and that he wore dock shoes without socks. I also remember the following conversation:

Me: Am I going to make it?

Doc: Make it for what?

I was soon on the operating table, gas mask on my face and counting backward from 100. I made it to 99 before I was out. Sometime between then, and me waking up, Dr. Nabors practiced his turkey-carving skills by removing my appendix and four inches of my small intestine like they were that bag of giblets  that comes with every Thanksgiving bird. When I finally came out from the anesthesia, I had one tube running down my nose and into my stomach, two more jammed into my arms for fluids and morphine, and the ultimate insertion, a catheter tube. I also had about 20 staples running down from my belly button and holding my midsection together.

It was still Thanksgiving Day when I awoke, but, there was no turkey and stufffing on my plate. My “feast” was a few ice chips that I barely kept in my mouth as I tried to figure out all the tubes that were coming out of me and into the equipment to which I was now attached. I didn’t think I’d be able to walk for weeks, but I swear that within a couple of hours of waking up, Dr. Nabors had me shuffling the hospital halls like…well, like someone with about 20 staples in his belly and a morphine drip in his arm.

That hospital room would be my home for the next week. And, oh, the experiences I would have. My doctor had a sense of humor, and would share off-color jokes during his rounds. I now know what it’s like to have a catheter yanked out from my…my insides. I watched 10 hours of NFL football, completely unfettered and without any demands on me, during that Sunday after my operation. I also watched a lot of MTV. This was back in the last days of when MTV still played actual music videos. If it hadn’t been for my stay and the Hospital Hotel, I might not have become acquainted with Weezer’s “Buddy Holly”, Beastie Boys “Sabotage”, The Offspring’s ‘Self Esteem”, “Fantastic Voyage”, by Coolio, “Longview”, by Green Day, Veruca Salt’s “Seether”, and even something by Pink Floyd called “Take It Back”.

A week after my Thankgiving Day gutting, I was cleared to leave the hospital. My mom, who had camped out in my room for most of my stay, drove me back to grandma’s house, where I cooled my jets for a few days before flying back to Tacoma. I then spent the next month at my parents’ house where, aside from going to see the Rolling Stones at the Kingdome, I pretty much hung out in my old bed and recuperated. By the time I got back to Japan, and my job, my two-week-long vacation had turned into an unexpected six-week excursion into the U.S. medical system.

This year has been very different. We had 15 people feasting at our house today, and as I wrap this up, six of them are playing a card game called “Sleeping Queens”. I am full of a turkey that I brined for more than 24 hours, as well as six different sides, two desserts, a couple of beers, a glass of wine, two cups of coffee and an ice-cold Coke. I almost feel like I could burst open.

But, I did that once already on Thanksgiving. And once was enough.