Stoned

Note: The following was written while I was under the influence of a really fabulous pain-killing prescription medication. (Seriously, I would recommend this stuff to anyone in mind-melding, fall-on-the-floor, writhing in agony-type pain. If you fall into that category, give me a call, and I'll tell you the name of the pill in question; I'm sure your doctor can help you with the follow-up steps. If you aren't in that type of pain at the moment--and I really hope you aren't-- just file away the fact in your memory, and pull it out when needed.) If this post seems rambling and pointless, cut me some slack and try to put yourself in my very sensible and bought-on-sale shoes. I was not at my best while writing, but at least I did try to convey the experience in its horror-inspiring entirety. Again, it isn't me; it's the meds talking.

This week didn't quite turn out the way I had planned it to. For one thing I now have a hole in my jugular that wasn't there before and which certainly never made it onto the agenda I had written up. Isn't the aphorism "Life is what happens when you're making other plans"? If so then this week was definitely a real slice of life.

It started normally. Monday went smoothly. Tuesday, Rob set out for the airport to catch the flight to New York for his trip, and I was happily (or not so much, but at least willingly!) doing the kids' laundry when I started one of the back aches I've learned to dread. I tried to convince myself that I has eaten too much sugar the night before, or perhaps I had just slept wrong the night before. Those have their effects sometimes. I took some Tylenol and slapped a heat patch on the area and decided to take a rest.

It wasn't until I started vomiting from the pain that I finally admitted the truth: I had a case of the stones. The kind that originate in the kidneys and slide excruciatingly down to the bladder, prompting their victims to beg for dull kitchen cutlery with which to perform emergency self-directed surgery.

I've gone through this before--you haven't experience true pain until you've passed a kidney stone while pregnant. I faced true pain three time with this last pregnancy; I am an experienced stone warrior.

Thankfully I knew what to do. Like any other mature and independent woman I pleaded for a barf bowl and called my mom.

I even knew which hospital to go to--not the one closest to us, which has an emergency room permanently packed. (I don't like to gibber and carry on in public. My dignity is important to me, personal barf bowl notwithstanding.) I went to the one a few more miles distant, but which has a relatively undiscovered ER. Total patients in the waiting room: two. How's that for superior planning under extreme distress?

I was checked in, checked, and medicated after minimal moaning--90 minutes, tops. And then after a CAT-scan they told me the news: this stone was a fighter.

Just a bit of preliminary info in case you are not personally acquainted with the wonderful world of kidney stones: the things tend to be tiny, usually mere flakes. But considering the weensy diameter--totally scientific terms, there--of the passageway they must traverse, even the smallest stones are painful beyond belief. Note to any males who may be perusing this blog for any odd reason: I've given birth while in an unmedicated state, and I've passed kidney stones. They are comparable on the "Dear goodness I'm going to claw my eyes out from the pain" scale, although I've never vomited while passing a child. (My cousin, fellow warrior in the war, has actually passed stones WHILE giving birth, WITHOUT medication! She is the kidney stone-passing She-Ra in my book.)

The stone I faced this week was a major heavyweight: seven millimeters. You may be thinking, "Seven millimeters? That's nothing! HA--what a wimp!" Wimp I may be, but pull out that ruler from the drawer and measure it off, then consider that the bodily tube through which it must pass is only TWO millimeters wide. Do the math, and don't forget to factor in the horrible jagged edges of the typical stone, and you may just pull out your own barf bowl in sympathy.

Not only was it an abnormally large stone, but it seems that I tolerate narcotic pain killers too darn well. The sweet, sweet angel of mercy-type nurse gave me a drug which is supposed to be seven times stronger than morphine. It made me feel great--absolutely floating on air. For about 15 minutes. Then I was screaming in pain again. (Well, not actually screaming. I tend to try to be overly polite and restrained in these types of situations in the hope that my exemplary behavior will be rewarded with really fabulous painkillers and maybe lollipops, sort of like when I used to go in for my annual shots and the nurses would pay me off in sugar for all the screams I had choked back.)

Long story short: there was no way in heck that I was going to pass that thing on my own. Trust me, I tried. For two days. Under extreme medication. (Including one usually prescribed for prostate problems. My beard should come in nicely they tell me.) I had surgery yesterday, and woke up with an IV stuck in my neck, so I spent the next 24 hours looking like something from Dr. Frankenstein's lab.

And to think the druggies in high school made being stoned sound like fun. Just another example of poor communication skills.