I had acute pancreatitis in my early thirties, half my current age. I woke up with what felt like a bad tummy ache, but it became much worse on the train to work so I made an unscheduled stop and bought coffee. I couldn't finish the coffee as the pain got much worse. I went to a pay phone (this was 1990, mobile phones were expensive and rare) and asked the flower vendor nearby to watch me in case I passed out during the emergency call. An ambulance came and I can't remember much else except wishing the registrar at the hospital didn't have to probe my abdomen quite so hard. I was put on a trolley and wheeled away. My last thoughts were of my wife and children. Pleasant thoughts, consoling, pretty good life, hope they manage without me. I was preparing for death.
I was put on an intravenous drip, no food or drink. Intravenous injections of pethidine were used to fight the pain. I wasn't an alcoholic but had abused alcohol in my twenties.
I slept for most of the first two days, and was allowed to take walks in the grounds for the remainder of my stay. I was very bored and begging to leave by the third day. They discharged me on the fifth day. This is the UK so the ambulance and everything else, including the bed and whatever meals I consumed, were free. I was back at work the next day. The fact that nobody at my office inquired as to my wellbeing was instrumental in my decision to refuse a freelance contract extension. After two months searching I got a new contract, my dream job. But that's a story for another day.
