It sure is funny how some things can sneak up on you. This past Sunday (Nov 18) I got up at my usual time, made my usual cup of coffee, whipped up a chili sauce marinade for a couple of pork chops I’d be having for dinner that evening, and watched the previous night’s Saturday Night Live.
A couple hours later I thought I’d share an old Thanksgiving photo on my blog with the backstory behind all the smiles. (Well, I thought it was funny…)
And an hour or so after that, my left flank & back erupted into a burning, suffocating pain. Not again! I’d just suffered this godawful kidney stone pain a couple weeks earlier, November 5-6. So I paced back & forth in my apartment for 3 hours, determined not to call 911 again like the last time. But it just became too much to bear, and the next thing I know, I’m in an ambulance headed to Mercy Hospital.
Several injections of good stuff like morphine & Dilaudid later, they explained I had a 5mm kidney stone blocking my bladder from my left kidney, and both organs had reached their swelling points. They drained my bladder with a catheter (ulp) and kept me overnight to see how things looked in the morning.
Monday was a drugged up, dopey daze where a nurse encouraged me to eat a runny egg and ice chips. But the day was relatively pain free (aside from that catheter between my legs). They decided to keep me another day. Why not.
Tuesday morning a urologist greeted me—she looked like a 20 year old contestant for a beauty pageant. I told her she looked suspiciously pretty for a urologist, she laughed and said “Thanks Doug! Maybe it will make things easier for you when I’m examining your prostate on a future visit.” She then went on to explain that my kidney stone only had a 50/50 chance of moving on its own, and it was up to me if I wanted a ureteral stent put in. “But I should warn you Doug, you’ll be trading one pain for another.”
Feeling a bit more like my old self, I said I was the eternal optimist and was sure I’d pass the stone; she said to come back if the pain returned. The pain DID return, 2 hours after I got home, and so did I—back to Mercy Hospital. This time they decided enough was enough, and after another CT scan, informed me that stone wasn’t going ANYWHERE (and there were now 2 other stones directly behind it, to boot—and one was 11mm.) They’d be performing surgery in the morning, to implant a ureteral stent.
After a couple weeks, it’d be removed—along with some laser-blasting of all three stones. Ya gotta love technology. Anyway—another night in the hospital.
I awoke Wednesday morning around 3:30 with a start—the pain was back, in full force. I begged for more of that good hydromorphone, but was told they couldn’t give me anymore. When I asked if they were concerned I was becoming a morphine addict, they said “Douglas your body is already saturated with narcotics. You’re one good injection away from a fatal overdose.” Oh.
They packed my lower half in ice while I awaited my 9:00am surgery. (That ice was actually pretty helpful.) And right on time, a team of medical personnel show up to wheel me to pre-OP. After arriving, I’m asked my birthdate, religious preferences, if I had a desire to harm myself or others, any hidden objects in my body and if there’s any illegal substances I abuse. 11 times. By 11 different people. The last one is an anethesiologist, who says “Doug, we’re going to have a fine time in the operatng room! We’ll talk & talk, but you’ll have no memory of it or anything else that happens in there. Now breathe into this oxygen mask while we wheel you down the hall…”
Zany, colorful dreams. I awaken with a wet face, my groin on fire and a heavyset woman sitting at a desk beside my bed. Bathroom… I whisper. She says “I told you Doug, we have no restroom facilities in post-OP! Now here’s that ginger ale and pack of snack cookies you asked for…” Er… I didn’t ask for anything, I just woke up? The last thing I remember is that black rubber mask going over my face. “BATHROOM” I grunt louder, and feebly rattle the rails on my bed. My God I’m about to explode! The woman says “Fine, we’ll take you to the public one in the hall, is that what you want?? Stacey, help me carry Doug into the hall please!”
As these two women prop me up and walk me to the restroom, I look down. I have some sort of papery mid-riff on, and naked from the belly down. Standing in front of a toilet, I pee what feels like an army of tin soldiers, and when I look down into the water—lots of odd, red junk. I’m about to black out.
When I awaken again, I’m in a real hospital room, dressed in a hospital gown & robe, in bed with a grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of tomato soup on the bedside table beside me. I haven’t eaten in 2 days, and I wolf it down like—well, like a man who hasn’t eaten in 2 days.
And that’s where I spent Thanksgiving Eve & Thanksgiving Day, in that hospital bed eating fairly bland (but still good) food, staring out the window and walking my IV thingie with me to the bathroom every 10 minutes. (This stent inside me gives me the constant, painful urge to pee in the worst way, and if I ignore the sensation for more than a couple seconds it starts peeing on it's own.) The nurse on my floor supplied me with a pack of maternity pads after I got my discharge papers, and let’s just say that they’ve been very helpful today.
I sure am hoping it eases up in the days ahead, because right now I don’t dare leave my apartment! Well, I’d better get going… again.
To be continued
