Oh, it was a few years ago that I had a bit of a crisis with my pee. Not my pee-pee, but my pee; my urine. I remember the day well. I was at home rustling up some grub because this is what I do in my spare time. I eat. I sleep and I make fun of people. The urge to pee hit me. You know the feeling. This pressure inside your lower abdomen that grows increasingly impatient while you, the controller of the pee, try and hold it in so that you can get as much done in life as possible and not have to be bothered by the inconvenience of taking a leak. I couldn’t wait any longer. I charged to the bathroom at the last possible moment. Nothing came out. I stood there as the pressure built and still nothing came out. What I did notice was this knife-like stabbing pain I felt in my lower back.
This presented a whole new series of issues. Pain is not something I am well prepared to deal with. I made an appointment to see my physician. She wasn’t in but I could see some clown who was a nurse practitioner, and who happened to have an opening in an hour. So, I went to see the nurse practitioner, Greg. Greg was a BIG man. He didn’t fit on the rolling stool that doctors sit on in the examination room. His ass was like an emergency raft you would see floating at sea. It was huge. It hung down off of the chair and his presence was not something you could overlook. He had a pita belly. My mom calls the second stomach some people get from fastening their belt a pita belly. When big people put a belt on, a second gut is created underneath the belt that is typically smaller in size than the main gut hanging over the top of the belt. It is a little unattractive, but it does make me appreciate that I am not quite that large, yet.
Greg wheeled his stool over to me and I could hear the chair squeak under the immense pressure his body was putting on the caster wheels and support system of this chair that was surely to give out at any moment. There seems to be something less than reassuring when a health care professional is obese. You want to put your trust in someone who seems to have a good handle on the human body and how to take care of it. I don’t think Nurse Practitioner Greg was there just yet, but this was my only hope to get through the pain. I had no idea what type of exam would be required. Practitioner Greg concluded that I had an enlarged Prostate. Really?
Three days passed and I still couldn’t pee aside from a few dribbles every now and then. I went back to my real doctor. She was cool. She always cruised into the examination room with a Starbucks coffee cup. She was the most laid back, kind doctor I had ever met. She insisted that you call her by her first name and she was a real person. She hooked me up with some x-rays and wouldn’t you know it. There were four kidney stones hanging out in my body. Two of these monsters were in each kidney. At least I had even distribution. Yet, this was no good. I had never had kidney stones, but I had heard they are unpleasant. She ushered me to the front desk and an appointment was made with a urologist to see about getting these bad dogs out.
I went to see the urologist. He was a tall, mid-fifties man whose hair was stringy and messy. He was full of business. There were no introductions, no handshakes and there was no small talk. He reviewed my x-rays and said we needed to do some surgery to get these things out.
My surgery was scheduled for a week later. In the meantime, I had to keep my pee in a jug in the refrigerator. I had to strain the pee to catch any fragments of kidney stones that would come out as well. What a treat. Keeping a gallon jug of urine in your refrigerator next to the skim milk was a little less than appetizing, but I was ready to be done with the pain. So, I did it.
A few days before the surgery, I was trying to pee and I thought my entire kidney was going to come out.
Breathing was difficult.
My life as I knew it was ending.
A heavy curtain of perspiration instantly emerged on my forehead.
I felt weak, clammy and nauseated.
Wanting to die from the pain, and about the time I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, a rock popped out.
Good God!
What was that thing?
It was a kidney stone.
This jagged rock was the size of a pea; large in terms of kidney stones.
I then had to fish it out of the
stool.
This was less than pleasant for many reasons which are too numerous to mention here.
I put the thing in a margarine tub and carted it to the doctor.
He was thrilled.
“This is a good one. We will have it analyzed straight away.”
Analyzed? For what? To see what it is worth in gold? To see if it is an alien? Analyzed for what? Apparently they like to see how much calcium is in it.
“Great. Fine by me.”
I checked in for the surgery to remove the other three kidney stones. I was nude, except for the paper thin gown I was wearing. One size clearly does not fit all. I stand six feet five inches tall and weigh in at about 230 pounds. My bum was hanging out the back and the sleeves barely came over the edge of my shoulders. The gown was just long enough to cover Mr. Smith and the kids, if you know what I mean. The nurse assigned to my pre-surgery care informed me that I needed to put all of my street clothes in a paper bag. I did. She ushered the bag off and wheeled me down the hall on a gurney. The rush of air up my legs and onto my body felt like a wind tunnel had been turned on.
I was discharged from the hospital after my big surgery. Percocet and Vicodin in hand, I went home to recover. This was all good until about 11:00 in the evening when I woke up to another knife in my back. This time is was far worse than any of the previous pain. This was no good because I am weak when pain comes knocking on my door. I crawled to the bathroom to try and pee. Nothing. I crawled to the front room and dialed my friend, Julie, from school. She wasn’t home. I couldn’t call 911 and be carted off in an ambulance. I wasn’t dying, was I? I found my keys, slipped on some shoes and stumbled to the car. Driving on Percocet and Vicodin is not really the best idea. I could see the road. I saw light coming at me as I hurled toward Overlake Medical Center. I piloted my blue Volvo up the road, crying all the way because the pain was so intense. I am a baby and not afraid to admit it. Crying isn’t a big thing to me, but it is when you don’t want anyone to know you are crying. Driving, on Percocet and Vicodin, while crying and in excruciating pain wouldn’t come across in the right manner if I were to be stopped by an officer.
I wheeled my blue car into the parking garage of the emergency room, pushed the car in park and literally crawled on my hands and knees to the elevator. On the ride down I had a feeling of impending doom. You know the feeling when you know you are going to discharge the contents of your stomach via your mouth? That was the one. The elevator stopped and the instant I crawled out I puked. This was not fun. I made it to the desk at the emergency room. It is kind of funny how they don’t make you wait the usual three hours in the waiting room when you show physical signs of impairment. The gal behind the desk looked like an RN. Maybe she wasn’t. I didn’t really care much. She came swooping over with a wheelchair.
“Ummm. Those are for old people. I can walk.”
She snapped back, “You are very ill. Climb in. You need help. You can’t walk.”
I fell into the wheel chair and was whisked down a long corridor to what I was sure was my final resting place. In flew a doctor and two nurses. Questions were flying left and right. I think I answered most of them. Hell, I don’t know. I kept asking for something to help with the pain. They kept saying just as soon as they can. As soon as they can? Why not now? They were all in the room with me then. They surely had access to pain killing medication. It was, after all, a hospital. I vomited again and one of the nurses jumped back so as to avoid the splattering projectile. Instantly the doctor chirped out some volume of medicine and within the span of one minute both of my arms were poked with needles and peace rushed over me in less than two minutes. You’ve got to know how to work the emergency room. If you are in pain, just start puking. That gets everyone’s attention apparently.
Off they wheeled me to the CAT scan machine. This thing whirled and spun and made all kinds of annoying noises while I lay in it with an IV drip floating into a land of nevermore. Apparently they had blown up my kidney stones the day before and instead of the pulverized kidney stones exiting my body they decided to reform and clog the exit of my kidneys. This was no good. That was why I couldn’t pee and why it hurt so bad. There was a lot of pressure. Doctor Feel Good lowered the boom with caution, “We are going to admit you to the hospital with your permission. You need to be monitored until the stones pass.”
He could have told me that they were sending me to Mars to a special recovery unit and I would have signed my life over, as long as they didn’t take that needle with that magic medicine out of my arm.
“Great. How long can I stay?” I spat out.
He laughed and the next thing I knew I was pushed into my own room where I slept for two days being interrupted every hour or so by a nurse to see if I had peed. I didn’t pee much in those two days and now I know what it feels like to be a toddler who is potty training. All the adults want you to pee like a big boy but you can’t or don’t want to. In my case, I couldn’t. Then the threats came.
“If you don’t produce some urine soon we are going to give you a catheter.” What the hell? That is not necessary, I thought. I do NOT want anything slid up there… ever. Hadn’t my schlong suffered enough tragedy with the expulsion of a kidney stone just a week before?
“No thanks,” I said. Though they mentioned the need to put in a catheter several times over the next few days, I managed to not get one because my urologist stopped in to see me and said it was time to do another surgery and go in and get the blockage out. Clearly, it was not going to pass on its own. I cringed and inquired as to how they go about going in to get it. He explained that they go “up in” to clear the blockage. Good God, I thought. Can this be the only way to do such a thing? He said they could make an incision on my side and it would be much more invasive, requiring weeks of recovery. I weighed the idea of being out of school for “weeks”. It was appealing, very appealing! He looked at me while I thought and he said,
“Really the first method is most effective and you won’t feel a thing; you’ll be under.” Well, he should have told me that the first time.
“OK.” And I was off to have my wiener played with by a whole other slew of doctors and nurses for my second surgery in a week.
It is humbling, to say the least, to be wheeled down the corridor in your less than adequate hospital gown, knowing that you are about to bare it all to a bunch of strangers.
The anesthesiologist came strolling in to the operating room, introduced himself and made some small talk with me. Then in flew my surgeon, my urologist and my new best friend. He was fumbling around and the nurses were slamming stainless steel equipment around. Needles were injected into my arm. I asked, “Where is the doctor?”
The anesthesiologist sidled up next to me and said, “Oh, he is wrestling with an IV bag over there. Don’t worry it is all under control.”
Wrestling with an IV bag? Ummm, that is a little alarming. I need a doctor with steady hands if we are going to be doing some invasive surgery in my nether regions. I tried not to think too much about the possibilities. What if there was a slip of a knife and it nicked my Johnson? Good God! What if my entire love tool was cut off by some random accident in the operating room? This is no good, but before I knew it, a mask was over my face and I was counting backwards from ten.
I woke up in a cold room with some woman shaking my arm, “You are in the recovery room at Overlake Medical Center.” She kept saying this over and over. I wanted to tell her to shut up because I needed more sleep. Apparently, they don’t want you to sleep too long or you might not wake up. Then I started talking and talking. She offered me graham crackers and juice. I did notice that I had the worst case of dry mouth in my life. I sucked down the crackers and juice and started to look around at the other fools who were being wheeling into the recovery room as I was regaining consciousness. This arm shaker nurse kept doing the same thing to each new patient who was added. She looked overworked, so I started helping her by announcing to the patients as they came to, “You’ll get some graham crackers and juice in a few minutes if you stay awake.” I could do that job. Hell, how hard could it be to wake up patients from surgery at Overlake Medical Center. I filed that career possibility away for the future while I continued to try and make all of these other surgery patients feel at home by offering them refreshments. Finally the arm shaker nurse said to me, “OK. Time for you to go to your OWN room.” I am not sure if they wheel everyone out of there after a while or if I was being “fired” for being too helpful and she wanted me to be in my own secluded room so I didn’t try and steal her job.
After an hour Arm Shaker Nurse invited me to get dressed. She handed me a paper bag with my clothes. I stumbled to the bathroom and was alarmed as I rummaged through my bag that was now underwear-less. Where were my skivvies? Did the nurse or doctor take them? Were they wearing them in the nurses’ station right now making fun of me? Did the nurse take them so she could smell them at home that night? Whatever the case it was a mystery. They were missing. I poked my head out of the restroom and hollered down the hall, ‘You Who?”
A new nurse who looked like she loved her job came over. This was a nice change. I explained the case of the missing underwear to her. She scoobied off to the maternity ward and came back with a pair of underwear that pregnant women wear when they are in the hospital, she explained. They were just like a pair of fish net stockings that I had seen some ladies of the night wear on TV. The only difference was that they were underwear without the leg part. So, I slipped these on. Does this kind of thing happen often, I wondered. I didn’t want to know.
Lynn, a friend from school, came to pick me up with her husband. How lucky I am that people at work like me enough to help me with all of my crisis situations that tend to crop up. Lynn peeked in and asked if I was ready. I was. She got all kinds of directions from the doctor and nurse while I sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the hallway. Apparently, I was singing and talking to everyone who walked by. I don’t’ remember all of that, but I do believe it. Lynn came over to me with the nurse and I blurted out, “The doctor said NO sex for a week.” Lynn looked alarmed and the nurse bust out laughing. What was I doing telling my colleague and friend about how much sex I was supposed to or not supposed to have. Lynn said, “Over sharing. I don’t need to know that.”
Dr. Hair Man came out in his street clothes and asked me how I was feeling.
“They lost my underwear here. I don’t have my underwear. I have to wear pregnant lady underwear. Then I pulled up my shorts leg and showed him the underwear. He laughed and turned to Lynn, “You better get this one out of here.”
Lynn, the friendly nurse and I rode in the elevator so I could be discharged. Apparently, they have to keep you in a wheelchair to look and feel like a patient until the second you step into your car to go home. There was a bit of a crowd in the elevator as we rode and it was silent. So, I thought I would tell the people that my underwear was lost.
“Hey, you guys. They lost my underwear in surgery. So, I have to wear these pregnant underwear.” I hoisted up my shorts leg and showed them to the elevator passengers. Little did they know that they were in for such a treat that day. Laughter erupted as we disembarked the elevator and as I was wheeled out to Lynn’s car where her husband was waiting. So, as we rode to my house I felt I needed to show Lynn’s husband my new underwear too.
About a week later, after returning to school, I got a phone call from the Overlake Medical Center. Apparently my underwear had been found and would I like to come pick them up?
“No thank you. I have a new pair from the Birthing Suite.”
A few months later, I received the Alumni magazine from Mount Mercy College. Go Mustangs! There is a form in the back of the Alumni magazine for alumni to submit big happenings in their lives to be published in a future Alumni magazine. So, I filled out the form and sent it in stating that I was the proud parent of a son named Devon. I didn’t write that my son was a kidney stone, just that I had become the parent of a son. About six months passed and the next issue came out. I scoured every inch of it to see if my news was published and it was! Within a few days calls and emails came from friends congratulating me and asking me what the hell had happened. Why hadn’t I told them that I had gotten married or that I had shacked up with some hot Seattle woman? It was fun at first. Then I got word that some of the faculty at Mount Mercy College who I had studied under were gathering a care package of clothing and other baby items to send to me. Whoops! A little fun gone astray.
Well, it really is like giving birth when you pass a kidney stone. Some say it is even worse.
