Steven Harper's Blog, page 72
December 4, 2017
Good News!
I saw the urologist today. He said the stones on the CT scan are embedded in kidney tissue and they aren't going anywhere. They =might= grow into a problem, but that'll take quite a while. He can't pull them out without damaging my kidneys, though if necessary, he could use shock wave treatment. He doesn't think it's an issue right now and said I should come back for another x-ray in a few months to keep an eye on things. No procedures or operations for now. Good!
He didn't have an explanation for the pain, though. He thought it could be after-effects of the operations. If it continues, I'll hit him up again.
No more hospital trips for now!
comments
He didn't have an explanation for the pain, though. He thought it could be after-effects of the operations. If it continues, I'll hit him up again.
No more hospital trips for now!
comments
December 1, 2017
I Live at the Hospital
This blog has turned into the Kidney Stone Blog. But these damn things have taken over my life.
I got home very late Thursday night (or early Friday morning, depending on how you define it) in no condition to teach, and I was forced to call in. I got very little sleep, and was fried and wrung out when I got up. Pain med hangover! I called the office of Dr. L-- to see if they maybe had an appointment slot today, and--yay!--they had. It was at 11:45. I dropped Max off at school, then tried to rest. I didn't get much. The incident made all my anxiety alarms go off, and I could feel all the progress I'd made in this arena dry into dust and blow away.
Finally, I drove down to Detroit. But after I checked in and was shown to an exam room, a different doctor popped in--a woman. My guard went up. I know it's foolish, but I react badly to female urologists. Female GP, I'm fine. Female urologist? No. There are Reasons, but none I want to explore on this blog.
She explained that Dr. L-- had been called into surgery and wasn't available. I was more than miffed. It takes nearly an hour to get to this office, and I had barely gotten to this appointment as it was. And it turned out this urologist was actually an urological oncologist, specializing in cancer, and she knew less about kidney stones than a GP.
I was pulled between the hand-shaking anxiety and a rising rage. However, the staff at the office grovelled quite a lot, throwing apology after apology at my feet like offerings to an angry god. This diminished the rage, leaving me to anxiety.
The oncologist ordered an x-ray, which they performed there at the office. When the image came back, she readily admitted that she couldn't read it well but could see what looked like at least one stone.
Still apologizing, she said she would have the staff get hold of Dr. L-- and ask him to do a quick appraisal of the x-ray, if I would be willing to wait. I was. I waited an hour or so, grading papers and trying to keep my mind off what felt like impending doom. At last Dr. L-- read the x-ray and responded. He was seeing multiple stones and wanted me to have a CT scan for a better look.
The staff was still in apology mode, and they set about trying to arrange a CT scan for me the same day. This required a great deal of back-and-forth, with yet more waiting, but I wasn't upset by now. I was just hoping to get the scan done. Finally, the very helpful lady in charge of scheduling came into the room and told me they'd scared up a slot for me, but it wasn't until 5:00. By now it was 3:00, and I hadn't had lunch.
In the middle of all this, I was sending frantic texts and emails. Max was at school, and it was clear I wouldn't get there in time to pick him up. (He can't ride the bus because we live in a different high school's district.) Finally, my wonderful friend Michelle, a fellow teacher at Nameless High School, said she could take him home. What a relief! I owe Michelle huge.
Meanwhile, the office's apology mode continued. (!) The scheduling lady gave me a cafeteria voucher so I could get something to eat for free. (!!) Well, that was nice of them! I left the office, ate my free lunch, and waited some more.
At 5:00, I went to the CT scanning lab. The tech ran me through the whirling machine, and I was done. Took ten minutes.
In all, I spent more than six hours at the hospital. I feel like I live there.
The next day, I got an alert that the results of the scan were available to me through the patient portal. The results went into great detail about EVERYTHING, not just my kidneys. (Apparently I have a cyst on my spleen--something else to ask about.) But the relevant part said:
"Bilateral non-obstructive renal calculi are present. The largest calculi bilaterally measure approximately 5 mm."
This is doctor speak for, "Kidney stones on both sides that aren't currently blocking anything. The largest stones on both sides are about 5 mm."
This flattened me. How could I have another big crop of stones when Dr. L-- had rooted around in my kidneys just three weeks ago? Did he fail to see them? I don't see how. According to the OR report, they checked for more stones with a pyloregram (x-ray with dye) and with the cystoscopic camera, and declared me stone-free. But kidney stones usually take three months at minimum to develop, and usually they take much, much longer. How could I have "grown" another set of stones in just three weeks?
I have another appointment on Monday, this time the staff swears I'll see Dr. L--. I'm anxious again. What kind of procedure will we be talking about? Will I need an operation, or can these pass on their own?
Both my kidneys ache constantly now. It's like a persistent headache--not debilitating, but noticeable. I take painkillers and hope nothing gets blocked before I see the doctor on Monday.
comments
I got home very late Thursday night (or early Friday morning, depending on how you define it) in no condition to teach, and I was forced to call in. I got very little sleep, and was fried and wrung out when I got up. Pain med hangover! I called the office of Dr. L-- to see if they maybe had an appointment slot today, and--yay!--they had. It was at 11:45. I dropped Max off at school, then tried to rest. I didn't get much. The incident made all my anxiety alarms go off, and I could feel all the progress I'd made in this arena dry into dust and blow away.
Finally, I drove down to Detroit. But after I checked in and was shown to an exam room, a different doctor popped in--a woman. My guard went up. I know it's foolish, but I react badly to female urologists. Female GP, I'm fine. Female urologist? No. There are Reasons, but none I want to explore on this blog.
She explained that Dr. L-- had been called into surgery and wasn't available. I was more than miffed. It takes nearly an hour to get to this office, and I had barely gotten to this appointment as it was. And it turned out this urologist was actually an urological oncologist, specializing in cancer, and she knew less about kidney stones than a GP.
I was pulled between the hand-shaking anxiety and a rising rage. However, the staff at the office grovelled quite a lot, throwing apology after apology at my feet like offerings to an angry god. This diminished the rage, leaving me to anxiety.
The oncologist ordered an x-ray, which they performed there at the office. When the image came back, she readily admitted that she couldn't read it well but could see what looked like at least one stone.
Still apologizing, she said she would have the staff get hold of Dr. L-- and ask him to do a quick appraisal of the x-ray, if I would be willing to wait. I was. I waited an hour or so, grading papers and trying to keep my mind off what felt like impending doom. At last Dr. L-- read the x-ray and responded. He was seeing multiple stones and wanted me to have a CT scan for a better look.
The staff was still in apology mode, and they set about trying to arrange a CT scan for me the same day. This required a great deal of back-and-forth, with yet more waiting, but I wasn't upset by now. I was just hoping to get the scan done. Finally, the very helpful lady in charge of scheduling came into the room and told me they'd scared up a slot for me, but it wasn't until 5:00. By now it was 3:00, and I hadn't had lunch.
In the middle of all this, I was sending frantic texts and emails. Max was at school, and it was clear I wouldn't get there in time to pick him up. (He can't ride the bus because we live in a different high school's district.) Finally, my wonderful friend Michelle, a fellow teacher at Nameless High School, said she could take him home. What a relief! I owe Michelle huge.
Meanwhile, the office's apology mode continued. (!) The scheduling lady gave me a cafeteria voucher so I could get something to eat for free. (!!) Well, that was nice of them! I left the office, ate my free lunch, and waited some more.
At 5:00, I went to the CT scanning lab. The tech ran me through the whirling machine, and I was done. Took ten minutes.
In all, I spent more than six hours at the hospital. I feel like I live there.
The next day, I got an alert that the results of the scan were available to me through the patient portal. The results went into great detail about EVERYTHING, not just my kidneys. (Apparently I have a cyst on my spleen--something else to ask about.) But the relevant part said:
"Bilateral non-obstructive renal calculi are present. The largest calculi bilaterally measure approximately 5 mm."
This is doctor speak for, "Kidney stones on both sides that aren't currently blocking anything. The largest stones on both sides are about 5 mm."
This flattened me. How could I have another big crop of stones when Dr. L-- had rooted around in my kidneys just three weeks ago? Did he fail to see them? I don't see how. According to the OR report, they checked for more stones with a pyloregram (x-ray with dye) and with the cystoscopic camera, and declared me stone-free. But kidney stones usually take three months at minimum to develop, and usually they take much, much longer. How could I have "grown" another set of stones in just three weeks?
I have another appointment on Monday, this time the staff swears I'll see Dr. L--. I'm anxious again. What kind of procedure will we be talking about? Will I need an operation, or can these pass on their own?
Both my kidneys ache constantly now. It's like a persistent headache--not debilitating, but noticeable. I take painkillers and hope nothing gets blocked before I see the doctor on Monday.
comments
November 29, 2017
And More . . . ?
I've been getting twinges from my kidneys for a few days, but I was hoping it was just after-effects of all the operations. But yesterday at 7:30 or so, the pain took a sharp uptick. I tried running, to jar whatever it was loose, but it didn't help. Uncertainly, I emailed sub plans to the school in case things got worse.
They did. It became clear I had to go to the hospital again. I was trying unsuccessfully not to panic, so I took a Xanax and a Norco, threw a few things in a bag in case I ended up being admitted (not my first rodeo, or even my tenth), and drove out there. Unfortunately, Darwin Parks McClary was at a council meeting in Ypsilanti and wasn't reachable, but I left him a voice mail telling him what was going on and that he didn't need to leave the meeting. At the hospital, they took their time admitting me--I had to shout at the nurse at one point to get her attention away from her conversation with a security guard about his vacation plans--and finally got me into the ER proper.
By now, the pain was letting up a little. The Norco at work. And here came another Very Handsome Doctor. I'm seriously beginning to think the universe is, in some small way, feeling guilty for sending me this shit, and sending me VHDs is its way of making up for it, at least a little. He got me hooked me up to an IV and gave me a shot of Toradol, which finished off the rest of the pain. Then it was down to x-ray.
The radiology report found two kidney stones on my right. I was scared and a little angry. Dr. L--, my latest surgeon, had put me through two painful operations within seven days and at the end, pronounced me stone free. Did he miss two? Did he see them and dismiss them as unimportant but fail to tell me? Did two more stones form in three weeks?
Another, rather motherly, ER doctor, who wasn't really trained in urology, talked to me about the stones. She looked surprised when I said I'd had stones extracted from my kidneys with a scope. "I didn't know they could do that in kidneys," she said.
I assured her they could, and did, and had. On me. Several times.
She gave me a scrip for more Norco (I have something like four bottles of the stuff now) and told me to drink lots of fluids. The stones should pass on their own eventually. Oh, and go see a urologist.
Seriously?
This is how kidney stones are =supposed= to work, of course. If one gets bad, you go to the hospital, where they shoot you up with fluids and pain meds, do an x-ray to make sure the stone isn't stuck, and send you home. But my case has shifted, and I need to have things looked at.
I got home very, very late last night, still high on a number of medicinal substances. Darwin still hadn't arrived--he was having difficulties of his own at work. He called when he was on his way home, but I'd taken more pain killers and Xanax, and I barely remember the conversation.
Today, I called Dr. L--'s office, and they turned out to have an appointment for late this morning. I took it. We'll see what he says.
comments
They did. It became clear I had to go to the hospital again. I was trying unsuccessfully not to panic, so I took a Xanax and a Norco, threw a few things in a bag in case I ended up being admitted (not my first rodeo, or even my tenth), and drove out there. Unfortunately, Darwin Parks McClary was at a council meeting in Ypsilanti and wasn't reachable, but I left him a voice mail telling him what was going on and that he didn't need to leave the meeting. At the hospital, they took their time admitting me--I had to shout at the nurse at one point to get her attention away from her conversation with a security guard about his vacation plans--and finally got me into the ER proper.
By now, the pain was letting up a little. The Norco at work. And here came another Very Handsome Doctor. I'm seriously beginning to think the universe is, in some small way, feeling guilty for sending me this shit, and sending me VHDs is its way of making up for it, at least a little. He got me hooked me up to an IV and gave me a shot of Toradol, which finished off the rest of the pain. Then it was down to x-ray.
The radiology report found two kidney stones on my right. I was scared and a little angry. Dr. L--, my latest surgeon, had put me through two painful operations within seven days and at the end, pronounced me stone free. Did he miss two? Did he see them and dismiss them as unimportant but fail to tell me? Did two more stones form in three weeks?
Another, rather motherly, ER doctor, who wasn't really trained in urology, talked to me about the stones. She looked surprised when I said I'd had stones extracted from my kidneys with a scope. "I didn't know they could do that in kidneys," she said.
I assured her they could, and did, and had. On me. Several times.
She gave me a scrip for more Norco (I have something like four bottles of the stuff now) and told me to drink lots of fluids. The stones should pass on their own eventually. Oh, and go see a urologist.
Seriously?
This is how kidney stones are =supposed= to work, of course. If one gets bad, you go to the hospital, where they shoot you up with fluids and pain meds, do an x-ray to make sure the stone isn't stuck, and send you home. But my case has shifted, and I need to have things looked at.
I got home very, very late last night, still high on a number of medicinal substances. Darwin still hadn't arrived--he was having difficulties of his own at work. He called when he was on his way home, but I'd taken more pain killers and Xanax, and I barely remember the conversation.
Today, I called Dr. L--'s office, and they turned out to have an appointment for late this morning. I took it. We'll see what he says.
comments
November 22, 2017
The Steamroller
This is how far I've fallen.
When you go in for an operation, you're always instructed to wear "loose, comfortable clothes," which is hospital code for "something you can strip off easily." The last three times I had a stone operation (and it still smacks me upside the head that "last three times" doesn't encompass all my operations), the "loose, comfortable clothes" included a particular pair of drawstring pants. They're soft and comfy; pajamai-ish but suitable for public wear. They're my favorites, in fact, and I wore them to draw comfort from them.
I haven't done laundry since the last operation. Today I did, and while I was folding, I pulled these favorite comfortable drawstring pants out of the basket--
--and had one of the worst panic attacks I've had in two weeks. I shoved the pants into a drawer and slammed it, but the anxiety continued. I finally took a Xanax and made Darwin hold me for a long time.
So I now associate my favorite pair of pants with pain, violation, and trauma. I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them again. Little shit like this piles up until I'm under a steamroller.
comments
When you go in for an operation, you're always instructed to wear "loose, comfortable clothes," which is hospital code for "something you can strip off easily." The last three times I had a stone operation (and it still smacks me upside the head that "last three times" doesn't encompass all my operations), the "loose, comfortable clothes" included a particular pair of drawstring pants. They're soft and comfy; pajamai-ish but suitable for public wear. They're my favorites, in fact, and I wore them to draw comfort from them.
I haven't done laundry since the last operation. Today I did, and while I was folding, I pulled these favorite comfortable drawstring pants out of the basket--
--and had one of the worst panic attacks I've had in two weeks. I shoved the pants into a drawer and slammed it, but the anxiety continued. I finally took a Xanax and made Darwin hold me for a long time.
So I now associate my favorite pair of pants with pain, violation, and trauma. I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them again. Little shit like this piles up until I'm under a steamroller.
comments
November 11, 2017
The New Kitten
In lighter news, today arrived . . . the New Kitten!
She's very cute, and very loving, and a big attention hog:
How did this happen, with Darwin's adamant refusal to get another cat, especially after the hell we went through with other cats? Well...
You may remember from previous entries that Darwin loves Scottish fold cats, and he got word that one of the pet agencies had one. When we arrived, we learned that the Scottish fold already had many people applying for it, but Darwin couldn't help looking at the other kitties, and this one charmed him completely. So he put in an application for her. And this time, since they had so many cats, the agency readily agreed to give her over, without the myriad background checks, home visits, and vet references they required before. Huh. Imagine.
We couldn't take her with us that day, though, because she hadn't been spayed yet. By today, that had been taken care of and we could pick her up.
We set things up for her--food and litterbox in the bathroom, separate from Dinah's. Dinah became instantly suspicious. And when we got home, her suspicions were confirmed. The little fuzzball leaped out of the carrier and Dinah drew back, expressing her displeasure. However, she didn't fluff her tail or arch her back. Instead, she retreated to the top of her cat tree and watched and watched and watched. Whenever the kitten got too close, she hissed, which the the kitten utterly ignored. We've been giving Dinah extra treats, which she eats, and extra petting, which she ignores.
I think eventually Dinah and the kitten will get along just fine.
Meanwhile, the kitten is busily exploring the house and getting everyone to pet her.
comments
She's very cute, and very loving, and a big attention hog:
How did this happen, with Darwin's adamant refusal to get another cat, especially after the hell we went through with other cats? Well...
You may remember from previous entries that Darwin loves Scottish fold cats, and he got word that one of the pet agencies had one. When we arrived, we learned that the Scottish fold already had many people applying for it, but Darwin couldn't help looking at the other kitties, and this one charmed him completely. So he put in an application for her. And this time, since they had so many cats, the agency readily agreed to give her over, without the myriad background checks, home visits, and vet references they required before. Huh. Imagine.
We couldn't take her with us that day, though, because she hadn't been spayed yet. By today, that had been taken care of and we could pick her up.
We set things up for her--food and litterbox in the bathroom, separate from Dinah's. Dinah became instantly suspicious. And when we got home, her suspicions were confirmed. The little fuzzball leaped out of the carrier and Dinah drew back, expressing her displeasure. However, she didn't fluff her tail or arch her back. Instead, she retreated to the top of her cat tree and watched and watched and watched. Whenever the kitten got too close, she hissed, which the the kitten utterly ignored. We've been giving Dinah extra treats, which she eats, and extra petting, which she ignores.
I think eventually Dinah and the kitten will get along just fine.
Meanwhile, the kitten is busily exploring the house and getting everyone to pet her.
comments
Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln . . .
So now I'm stone free and feeling only occasional small twinges of pain. After four full-blown operations and two office procedures in eight weeks, it's all over.
But really, it's not.
I'm still tired all the time. I still have anxiety attacks. I still feel violated, humiliated, and even ashamed. And I'm angry all the time. My mind had no time to process everything that happened before yet another hit slammed into me. When I think about the anesthesia and the operations and tubes and the pain and my splayed out on an operating table FOUR TIMES, my breath jerks and my heart pounds. And my mind returns to these images often. I'm still badly depressed.
I can write this blog. I can write Facebook posts. But fiction? No. I open up a page and stare at it. Nothing. The hospital stole that from me. Everyone says, "It'll come back soon. Just give yourself time." I don't -want- time. I want my life back.
So it isn't over. I'm still seeing my counselor. I'm taking meds. I cry on Darwin's shoulder a lot and worry that I'm overburdening him with my problems.
I feel like I lost two months of my life, and I'm going to lose even more.
comments
But really, it's not.
I'm still tired all the time. I still have anxiety attacks. I still feel violated, humiliated, and even ashamed. And I'm angry all the time. My mind had no time to process everything that happened before yet another hit slammed into me. When I think about the anesthesia and the operations and tubes and the pain and my splayed out on an operating table FOUR TIMES, my breath jerks and my heart pounds. And my mind returns to these images often. I'm still badly depressed.
I can write this blog. I can write Facebook posts. But fiction? No. I open up a page and stare at it. Nothing. The hospital stole that from me. Everyone says, "It'll come back soon. Just give yourself time." I don't -want- time. I want my life back.
So it isn't over. I'm still seeing my counselor. I'm taking meds. I cry on Darwin's shoulder a lot and worry that I'm overburdening him with my problems.
I feel like I lost two months of my life, and I'm going to lose even more.
comments
Pulling the Stent
Originally I'd hoped to be back at work, post-op, on Friday. (My last operation was Wednesday.) But Thursday during the day, it became very clear I wouldn't survive a day teaching. I want to punch all the people who say, "You can return to normal activities the next day." It's complete bullshit. I couldn't walk more than twenty or thirty steps without needing to rest, and I =hurt= all the time. The pain and the anesthesia feed the depression, and to top it off, I'm still feeling I've been assaulted and violated over and over. I get nightmares sometimes. I don't get why they lie like this. It would be easy to say, "You'll feel tired and dragged out for three or four days, so don't make plans." "Normal activities," my ass.
Xanax helps, in a short term. Man, you take one of these before bed and you sleep hard! And I've started taking Zoloft, but that'll take a while to start working.
Anyway, originally the doctor had said this final stent would, like the others, remain inside me for at least a week, news that always made my legs shake and my stomach clench. Ever since September 13, I've only gone a week without a stent. That's nearly two months living with excruciating, debilitating pain, burying my face in a towel or biting my sleeve whenever I went to the bathroom to hold in the screams. Everybody always said, "You're almost done! You'll be free of it any day!" And they were lying, every one of them. When you're in agony, ten seconds feels like a year. I got so tired of hearing the "almost done" lie. Don't tell me I'm "almost done." Tell me what I can do to stop the pain.
To top it off, kidney stone victims are always told, "Drink lots and lots and lots of fluid." So you have to go to the bathroom more and more and more often, and every extra trip to the toilet is time in a torture chamber with red hot irons and spikes in your side.
So it was some nicer news that this last stent could come out Friday. Two days of screaming pain instead of seven or ten. Hey, a blessing!
As I mentioned in a previous entry, this stent had strings attached to it. Two thin nylon strings trailed from my urethra and were looped back over my genitals to be taped down. The shithead (and I suspect it was a woman, since a man wouldn't have made this mistake) who did the taping didn't allow near enough slack, which meant I dealt with yet more pain a couple times on Wednesday night, and Thursday Darwin and I had to find a way to retape the whole thing without actually pulling it out. This hurt quite a lot as well--every tiny tug was a jolt of pain. It didn't help that I ended up talking to an ignorant, insensitive, utterly stupid nurse on the phone about it and she assumed I was in pain was because I was "having relations" and not being a normal male.
However, I got an appointment scheduled for Friday morning. Technically, I could have pulled the stent out myself, but the very thought made me shake and freak so much that I needed someone else to do it for me. Because of this fear, Dr. L-- gave me a scrip for Valium to take beforehand.
Friday, Darwin absolutely had to go to work--he's missed a lot of it because of me--so I drove myself down to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. Up in the urology department, a nurse showed me into an exam room. She took my vitals, and wonder of wonders, my blood pressure was way down. At other visits, my pressure was high enough to qualify me for hypertension, but it was all stress. Between the Valium and the knowledge the worst was done, my blood pressure had normalized itself.
"I'd like a man to do this for me, please," I told the nurse.
"We don't have any male nurses on staff," she said regretfully. "I'm very sorry, but--hey, wait." She left the room.
A few minutes later, a Stunningly Handsome Young Man entered. He could have been an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and he had the biggest blue eyes even the heavens can imagine. For the second time, I thought maybe the universe was giving me something nice in return for all the shit, however small.
He introduced himself as Dr. J-- (a resident, I gathered), and he said he'd take the stent out. He gave me a cursory examination. "This is taped down really well," he observed. Yeah. I should train for the OR.
Carefully, he worked the tape free, then said, "Do you want it fast or slow?"
"Whichever will be the least painful," I said.
He pulled. I felt the stent slide down my insides and out my body, and oh, it hurt! But it only was only for about three seconds, and far, far less painful than injecting ineffective painkillers into my urethra, going up there with a scope, grabbing the stent, and pulling the whole thing out. Why the fuck the string method isn't standard, I don't know.
I did need a moment to recover, though. It was definitely less painful, but absolutely no fun.
I thanked the resident, went home, and crashed for an hour. Then I picked Max up from school and crashed for two hours. I was completely exhausted.
Now, however, I'm "only" on kidney stone watch. Every year, I'm on track to get an x-ray to check for more of them.
And I'm going to fucking sue my original G.P. for putting me on the meds that started all this.
comments
Xanax helps, in a short term. Man, you take one of these before bed and you sleep hard! And I've started taking Zoloft, but that'll take a while to start working.
Anyway, originally the doctor had said this final stent would, like the others, remain inside me for at least a week, news that always made my legs shake and my stomach clench. Ever since September 13, I've only gone a week without a stent. That's nearly two months living with excruciating, debilitating pain, burying my face in a towel or biting my sleeve whenever I went to the bathroom to hold in the screams. Everybody always said, "You're almost done! You'll be free of it any day!" And they were lying, every one of them. When you're in agony, ten seconds feels like a year. I got so tired of hearing the "almost done" lie. Don't tell me I'm "almost done." Tell me what I can do to stop the pain.
To top it off, kidney stone victims are always told, "Drink lots and lots and lots of fluid." So you have to go to the bathroom more and more and more often, and every extra trip to the toilet is time in a torture chamber with red hot irons and spikes in your side.
So it was some nicer news that this last stent could come out Friday. Two days of screaming pain instead of seven or ten. Hey, a blessing!
As I mentioned in a previous entry, this stent had strings attached to it. Two thin nylon strings trailed from my urethra and were looped back over my genitals to be taped down. The shithead (and I suspect it was a woman, since a man wouldn't have made this mistake) who did the taping didn't allow near enough slack, which meant I dealt with yet more pain a couple times on Wednesday night, and Thursday Darwin and I had to find a way to retape the whole thing without actually pulling it out. This hurt quite a lot as well--every tiny tug was a jolt of pain. It didn't help that I ended up talking to an ignorant, insensitive, utterly stupid nurse on the phone about it and she assumed I was in pain was because I was "having relations" and not being a normal male.
However, I got an appointment scheduled for Friday morning. Technically, I could have pulled the stent out myself, but the very thought made me shake and freak so much that I needed someone else to do it for me. Because of this fear, Dr. L-- gave me a scrip for Valium to take beforehand.
Friday, Darwin absolutely had to go to work--he's missed a lot of it because of me--so I drove myself down to Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. Up in the urology department, a nurse showed me into an exam room. She took my vitals, and wonder of wonders, my blood pressure was way down. At other visits, my pressure was high enough to qualify me for hypertension, but it was all stress. Between the Valium and the knowledge the worst was done, my blood pressure had normalized itself.
"I'd like a man to do this for me, please," I told the nurse.
"We don't have any male nurses on staff," she said regretfully. "I'm very sorry, but--hey, wait." She left the room.
A few minutes later, a Stunningly Handsome Young Man entered. He could have been an Abercrombie & Fitch model, and he had the biggest blue eyes even the heavens can imagine. For the second time, I thought maybe the universe was giving me something nice in return for all the shit, however small.
He introduced himself as Dr. J-- (a resident, I gathered), and he said he'd take the stent out. He gave me a cursory examination. "This is taped down really well," he observed. Yeah. I should train for the OR.
Carefully, he worked the tape free, then said, "Do you want it fast or slow?"
"Whichever will be the least painful," I said.
He pulled. I felt the stent slide down my insides and out my body, and oh, it hurt! But it only was only for about three seconds, and far, far less painful than injecting ineffective painkillers into my urethra, going up there with a scope, grabbing the stent, and pulling the whole thing out. Why the fuck the string method isn't standard, I don't know.
I did need a moment to recover, though. It was definitely less painful, but absolutely no fun.
I thanked the resident, went home, and crashed for an hour. Then I picked Max up from school and crashed for two hours. I was completely exhausted.
Now, however, I'm "only" on kidney stone watch. Every year, I'm on track to get an x-ray to check for more of them.
And I'm going to fucking sue my original G.P. for putting me on the meds that started all this.
comments
Missing Purple
Darwin and I had tickets to see THE COLOR PURPLE musical in Detroit tonight, but I'm still recovering from all the operations, and I was just too exhausted to contemplate it. Fortunately, I was able to resell the tickets! It's for less than we paid for them, but hey--we got a big chunk back.
I'm upset about missing the show, especially the reason why. These medical procedures continue to steal chunks of my life.
comments
I'm upset about missing the show, especially the reason why. These medical procedures continue to steal chunks of my life.
comments
November 9, 2017
Tongue-Sucking and Me
An old habit is haunting me.
When I was a child, I didn't suck my thumb--I sucked my tongue. This was partly because I didn't want to stick my thumb into my mouth (yuck!) and partly because I have a long tongue (yeah, yeah, I'm wasted on a man, move along). To keep it in my mouth when I was little, I folded it half, so the tip of my tongue faced the back of my mouth. Once you've done this, the natural progression is to suck on it.
This bugged my mother. There was no way for her to break me of the habit. You can pull a child's thumb out of his mouth. You can take pacifiers away. But you can't take a kid's tongue away. Not without incurring some serious prison time, at any rate.
It took me a long, long time to outgrow this habit. I was probably in my teens before I finally gave it up.
Now it's back. And in a weird way.
The kidney stones have me on Norco a lot to relieve pain. They also make me a little high. And they make me suck my tongue. It's strange, but true. About twenty minutes after I pop a Norco, I find myself sucking my tongue. I don't even notice until I've been doing it for a while. Sometimes I notice only because my jaw has become tense from all the motion.
I don't understand the mechanism here. Maybe the Norco produces a neurological side effect. Or maybe Norco re-creates in my head how it felt to suck my tongue when I was little, which makes me subconsciously go back to it. Or maybe it's unrelated and the trauma of the last two and a half months makes me look to an earlier time for comfort.
Whatever it is, it's weird.
comments
When I was a child, I didn't suck my thumb--I sucked my tongue. This was partly because I didn't want to stick my thumb into my mouth (yuck!) and partly because I have a long tongue (yeah, yeah, I'm wasted on a man, move along). To keep it in my mouth when I was little, I folded it half, so the tip of my tongue faced the back of my mouth. Once you've done this, the natural progression is to suck on it.
This bugged my mother. There was no way for her to break me of the habit. You can pull a child's thumb out of his mouth. You can take pacifiers away. But you can't take a kid's tongue away. Not without incurring some serious prison time, at any rate.
It took me a long, long time to outgrow this habit. I was probably in my teens before I finally gave it up.
Now it's back. And in a weird way.
The kidney stones have me on Norco a lot to relieve pain. They also make me a little high. And they make me suck my tongue. It's strange, but true. About twenty minutes after I pop a Norco, I find myself sucking my tongue. I don't even notice until I've been doing it for a while. Sometimes I notice only because my jaw has become tense from all the motion.
I don't understand the mechanism here. Maybe the Norco produces a neurological side effect. Or maybe Norco re-creates in my head how it felt to suck my tongue when I was little, which makes me subconsciously go back to it. Or maybe it's unrelated and the trauma of the last two and a half months makes me look to an earlier time for comfort.
Whatever it is, it's weird.
comments
The Final Stoning of Steven
Wednesday morning I got up, took a Valium, and climbed into the car so Darwin could drive me to the hospital for my fourth operation in eight weeks. Fourth time I'd be knocked out, fourth time I'd wake up to pain.
Pain, kidney stones, and the constant violation of my body have been going on for so long, they've become part of my identity. I don't know how to think without considering all these things. Crippling anxiety might strike at any moment. Every time I go to the bathroom, I ready myself for pain. I can't walk more than a dozen-odd yards without getting winded. And there's always another operation looming, when strangers will render me unconscious, splay me on a table, and do whatever they want to me, sniggering all the while at my exposed parts.
Despite the Valium (which the surgeon kindly prescribed for me as a one-shot), I was a hot mess by the time Darwin and I arrived in Detroit. The Valium did keep me a little more level-headed than last time, though. We trooped up the elevator to the fourth floor check-in lounge, went through the same process as before, and sat around, trying to chat me through my shakiness. As before, the nurse finally called my name and a pang went through my stomach. Darwin wasn't allowed to go with me at first.
Last time I had a separate room for pre-op. This time I had a bay in a larger ward with just curtains for what passed for privacy. The nurse gave me my gown and instructions to undress. I put the gown on with the ties facing forward--it's easier to tie them, and it ensures my ass isn't hanging out when I'm done. I got into the bed just as the nurse returned. She looked scandalized.
"Your gown is on backward!" she cried.
"No," I said, giving my standard answer. "Mine is on forward. Everyone =else= has theirs on backward."
She wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A second came in and made the same shocked statement. The first nurse repeated what I'd said, and the second one seemed to be more amused.
"But the pocket for the heart monitor is on the front," she said. "There's no place to put it with the gown on that way."
"I won't need a heart monitor," I shot back.
"You never know," she replied.
I folded my arms and ended the discussion.
The rapid-fire questions began, all of them the same as last time. "What's your name? Birth date? What operation are you having? Do you have any allergies?" I interrupted partway through and asked for Darwin to come back. As before, the nurse was recalcitrant about it, but I insisted. He was finally ushered in, and I felt a lot calmer. There was a kerfluffle for a moment--my chart said my right side was being operated on to clear the last stones out.
"That was last week," I said. "The only thing they're supposed to do on the right today is take the stent out. He's actually operating on my left."
This took some time to straighten out. If something is in the computer, apparently it's written in stone. But finally they changed it. The nurse finished the Q&A, assured us the doctor would be in soon, and left.
Meanwhile, in the bay next to us, another patient entered who wasn't nervous at all. We couldn't see him through the curtain, and I don't know what he was coming in for, but the first thing we heard after the nurse told him to undress was, "My prosthetic leg won't fit in this bag! Should I leave it on?"
"No, honey," the nurse said. "It needs to come off."
"Then I need a wet paper towel or something to wrap my stump in," he said. "Can ya get me one, darlin'? Otherwise it'll ooze all over the sheets here."
We also overheard his Q&A:
NURSE: Do you drink alcohol?
PATIENT: Only on days ending in Y. But it's just beer, and that don't count.
NURSE: Cigarettes?
PATIENT: That stuff'll kill you!
NURSE: When did you last have your marijuana?
PATIENT: I lit a big one up yesterday afternoon, I think.
This went on. I wanted to write it all down to use later. Darwin and I were covering our mouths to hold in the laughing. It was a lighter moment in a difficult day.
Eventually, the anesthetist showed up. It wasn't the same guy as last week, but he was friendly enough. One thing I liked about him was that he said he was planning to use just a mask and a small breathing/gas tube that would sit at the back of my tongue, and not a full-blown respirator. I was happy about that.
By now I've become experienced at anesthesia (knowledge I never wanted), and I told him that I needed pain and anti-nausea meds =before= I woke up so I wouldn't be so miserable, and he agreed to handle that.
"He also cries as the anesthesia wears off," Darwin said. "I think it's a side-effect."
He nodded sagely. "There are things we can do to keep that from happening," he said, and I was glad about that, too.
I was terribly thirsty, but knew the hospital wouldn't give me anything to drink. I hooked Darwin into a scheme. "There's a sink over there," I pointed. "Can you sneak me a glass of water?"
Reluctantly, he sidled up to the sink, but there were no cups. This was probably to thwart people exactly like me. But I wasn't done.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I announced.
And a hospital employee was engaged to hold my IV and show me the way, and since my gown was on the right way, I didn't need to clutch the back closed. So there. In the bathroom, I drank deeply from the faucet. So there, too!
Back at my bed, it was more waiting, and more waiting, and finally Dr. L-- showed up. He answered more of my questions. Yes, there'd be yet another stent left behind, but they'd use the smallest they had. No, he hadn't used a laser last time--just a basket to get the stones out. Yes, he'd prescribe extra pain meds for the upcoming stent, since he knew I had so many problems.
Whenever he mentioned a stent, I had to put my hands over my face to shut out the fear. "Taking the stent out is almost as bad as the operation," I said, shaking again.
"I could put it on a string," he said. "It's inconvenient, but it makes taking the stent out a lot easier. I could give you another Valium and have you come in to the office for it."
"I hate that scope," I said. "Hate, hate, hate it."
So he said he'd use a string.
And then they gave me a dose of Versed, which made me a little dizzy, but I was determined to hang on to memory. The rest of the surgical team showed up, and I knew all of them except one guy, who was standing in the background. He was young and very handsome.
"Are you ready?" said Dr. L--.
"Who is that?" I asked, pointing.
The man introduced himself as a resident who'd be assisting. Later, Darwin told me he was trying not to laugh because, due to the Versed, my "who is that?" came out as a cat-call. When that happened, the anesthetist, who was also gay, caught Darwin's eye behind my back and winked, which only made things worse for Darwin. I don't remember it going that way, but that's what Darwin says happened.
They wheeled my bed down to the operating room, leaving Darwin behind. I hate losing my memory, and made a determined effort to remember what I saw: shelves of medical equipment, metal carts, cupboards, people in scrubs, a set of sinks with huge faucets. In the OR, one more person remarked on my gown being on backwards, and I gave my standard answer.
They moved me to the table, and there were the stirrups again. Dr. L-- promised to put extra padding on them this time so my legs wouldn't be cramped when I woke up. The anesthetist put a mask on me--
--and I was back in another room, surrounded by curtains. Everything was heavy and dark. I managed to crack an eye open and saw a female nurse typing at a portable computer station. I shut my eyes again, unhappy. For these procedures, I don't want women handling me, and I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just have to get through this."
A few moments later, a male nurse in scrubs came in. "I'll take over," he said, and the woman left. Oh, I was happy. I don't know if my chart said something about my past history so they gave me a male, or if it was coincidence, but I was glad nonetheless.
I hurt, but not nearly as much as before, and I wasn't nauseated. The anesthetist had done his job well.
Still, I was climbing out of heavy darkness, with every limb weighed down and my head swimming. The nurse shook my foot and called my name loudly. "Are you awake?" he boomed.
My eyes were open, but I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded a little.
"My name is Craig," he said. "It looks like everything went well. You'll have to void your bladder, and then you can go home."
"Did they put in a stent?" I croaked.
"They did."
Here my heart sank. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping Dr. L-- would have changed his mind about that.
"Where's Darwin?" I asked. "I need Darwin."
"Who's Darwin?" Craig asked.
Shouldn't this be on my chart? I wondered. "He's my husband. I want to see him."
"First we should--"
"I want my husband!"
Craig shrugged, took out a phone, and asked for Darwin's number. I lay back and dozed off again, but a few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw him walking through the ward toward me with a big smile, and I felt so wonderful seeing his cheerful face. He kissed me.
"You look a lot better than last time," he said. "I'm so glad."
I was taking stock now. My legs didn't hurt. My lower body hurt only a little. I could feel the painkillers sliding through me, dulling the pain.
My gown was on the wrong way. Yes, some anal-retentive nurse or orderly had stripped my gown off, turned it around, and fed my arms through it. Whoever the asshole was hadn't even bothered to tie it shut, either. It felt petty and bullying. "Yeah, he won't put the gown on the way =we= want, so we'll just knock him out. See if he can stop us then!" Fuckwads. I hate hospitals and their pissy personnel.
I checked under the sheet.
WARNING: GRAPHIC STUFF TO FOLLOW!
( Read more... )
When it was over, I leaned back on the bed, panting. Craig the Nurse ran a scan and announced my bladder has half empty. "You can go home soon," he said.
I gave him a "what the fuck do you know?" look. I couldn't even sit up and piss, let alone go home. At least I wasn't crying this time! I don't know what the anesthetist did, but that was a relief. Bawling in the ward on Darwin's shirt was no great fun last time, and it was nice not to weather it this time.
An Asian man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wong. I recognized his name from the paperwork on my last operation, but I'd never seen him before.
"I don't remember you," I said drunkenly.
He sighed. "No one ever does. It's the curse of my position."
He went over post-op stuff with Darwin, because I kept falling asleep. He reiterated what Darwin had said--that the first stent was gone, there were no stones in my left side, the calcified tissue is harmless (though it may generate more stones and I should get a yearly x-ray to check), and there were a lot of drugs for me to take. I lay there, feeling stupid and helpless and weak.
Then came some better news: because no stones had come out, the stent could be removed in a couple days instead of staying in a week. (!)
After Dr. Wong left, Craig the Nurse stepped away as well. I turned to Darwin. "I need to use the urinal again. Maybe I should stand up."
Darwin helped me to my feet. I leaned heavily on him and tried the urinal. This time it worked more easily, but it was still so painful I couldn't help howling. The strings hanging out felt strange as well. They gave--still give--me the sensation that I'm dribbling all the time.
I got back into bed and rested some more. Darwin chatted with Craig, who returned. I just tried to gather strength. This operation hadn't been nearly as bad for me as the previous one, though it had lasted just as long--two hours. I'm sure the fact that they hadn't made multiple trips down my urinary canal dragging stones in a basket made a major difference. Darwin repeated that I looked a lot better than last time.
Darwin had also, at my request, recorded his meeting with Dr. L-- after the surgery. (I asked him to do this because, much as I adore Darwin, he's awful at remembering medical details and makes vague statements like, "The doctor said it was fine.") Listening to the recording helped keep me calm because I felt more informed.
Finally, it was time to go home. Same routine as before: Darwin ran ahead to get the car while some lady pushed me through the hallways in a wheelchair. Out front, Darwin helped me into the car and we drove home.
At home, I was resting in bed. Darwin brought me a snack--
--and suddenly I burst into tears. I cried and cried and cried while Darwin held me. I couldn't get myself back under control, and I said all the things I'd said last time, that I felt stupid, that I couldn't stop, that I felt weak. This time, though, there was an element of release. This was my last operation, and the doctor had confirmed it was over, and everything I'd been holding in came pouring out.
"It's a delayed reaction," Darwin said, stroking my head. "Just get through it, you'll be fine."
And I kept crying. So the anesthetist was only able to delay the inevitable.
Going to the bathroom is still a horrible chore. The stent--now on my left again--rips up my insides no matter what, and the strings hanging out of me make things touchier. And once the hospital painkillers wore off, I was hurting again. More pills!
That night, I woke up with an entirely new problem.
GRAPHIC STUFF BEHIND THE CUT
( Read more... )
Darwin, to his chagrin, was enlisted to help me pull the tape off. It was a three-hand job to do it without yanking the stent out. We succeeded, but I didn't like the much longer strings hanging free. They kept catching on the inside of my clothes and tugging painfully. Finally, Darwin drove me to the drug store and we found the same kind of surgical tape the hospital had used. We bought a packet, and back home Darwin had the fun job of helping me retape the strings, this time with an appropriate amount of slack. (Don't ask how we figured this out!)
Meanwhile, I made an appointment at the urologist's for Friday to get the stent removed. I could technically do it myself--all you have to do is pull the string--but the thought makes me shake, so I'm going in to have someone else do it while I'm on Valium. On Friday, everything will be over at last.
comments
Pain, kidney stones, and the constant violation of my body have been going on for so long, they've become part of my identity. I don't know how to think without considering all these things. Crippling anxiety might strike at any moment. Every time I go to the bathroom, I ready myself for pain. I can't walk more than a dozen-odd yards without getting winded. And there's always another operation looming, when strangers will render me unconscious, splay me on a table, and do whatever they want to me, sniggering all the while at my exposed parts.
Despite the Valium (which the surgeon kindly prescribed for me as a one-shot), I was a hot mess by the time Darwin and I arrived in Detroit. The Valium did keep me a little more level-headed than last time, though. We trooped up the elevator to the fourth floor check-in lounge, went through the same process as before, and sat around, trying to chat me through my shakiness. As before, the nurse finally called my name and a pang went through my stomach. Darwin wasn't allowed to go with me at first.
Last time I had a separate room for pre-op. This time I had a bay in a larger ward with just curtains for what passed for privacy. The nurse gave me my gown and instructions to undress. I put the gown on with the ties facing forward--it's easier to tie them, and it ensures my ass isn't hanging out when I'm done. I got into the bed just as the nurse returned. She looked scandalized.
"Your gown is on backward!" she cried.
"No," I said, giving my standard answer. "Mine is on forward. Everyone =else= has theirs on backward."
She wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed. A second came in and made the same shocked statement. The first nurse repeated what I'd said, and the second one seemed to be more amused.
"But the pocket for the heart monitor is on the front," she said. "There's no place to put it with the gown on that way."
"I won't need a heart monitor," I shot back.
"You never know," she replied.
I folded my arms and ended the discussion.
The rapid-fire questions began, all of them the same as last time. "What's your name? Birth date? What operation are you having? Do you have any allergies?" I interrupted partway through and asked for Darwin to come back. As before, the nurse was recalcitrant about it, but I insisted. He was finally ushered in, and I felt a lot calmer. There was a kerfluffle for a moment--my chart said my right side was being operated on to clear the last stones out.
"That was last week," I said. "The only thing they're supposed to do on the right today is take the stent out. He's actually operating on my left."
This took some time to straighten out. If something is in the computer, apparently it's written in stone. But finally they changed it. The nurse finished the Q&A, assured us the doctor would be in soon, and left.
Meanwhile, in the bay next to us, another patient entered who wasn't nervous at all. We couldn't see him through the curtain, and I don't know what he was coming in for, but the first thing we heard after the nurse told him to undress was, "My prosthetic leg won't fit in this bag! Should I leave it on?"
"No, honey," the nurse said. "It needs to come off."
"Then I need a wet paper towel or something to wrap my stump in," he said. "Can ya get me one, darlin'? Otherwise it'll ooze all over the sheets here."
We also overheard his Q&A:
NURSE: Do you drink alcohol?
PATIENT: Only on days ending in Y. But it's just beer, and that don't count.
NURSE: Cigarettes?
PATIENT: That stuff'll kill you!
NURSE: When did you last have your marijuana?
PATIENT: I lit a big one up yesterday afternoon, I think.
This went on. I wanted to write it all down to use later. Darwin and I were covering our mouths to hold in the laughing. It was a lighter moment in a difficult day.
Eventually, the anesthetist showed up. It wasn't the same guy as last week, but he was friendly enough. One thing I liked about him was that he said he was planning to use just a mask and a small breathing/gas tube that would sit at the back of my tongue, and not a full-blown respirator. I was happy about that.
By now I've become experienced at anesthesia (knowledge I never wanted), and I told him that I needed pain and anti-nausea meds =before= I woke up so I wouldn't be so miserable, and he agreed to handle that.
"He also cries as the anesthesia wears off," Darwin said. "I think it's a side-effect."
He nodded sagely. "There are things we can do to keep that from happening," he said, and I was glad about that, too.
I was terribly thirsty, but knew the hospital wouldn't give me anything to drink. I hooked Darwin into a scheme. "There's a sink over there," I pointed. "Can you sneak me a glass of water?"
Reluctantly, he sidled up to the sink, but there were no cups. This was probably to thwart people exactly like me. But I wasn't done.
"I need to go to the bathroom," I announced.
And a hospital employee was engaged to hold my IV and show me the way, and since my gown was on the right way, I didn't need to clutch the back closed. So there. In the bathroom, I drank deeply from the faucet. So there, too!
Back at my bed, it was more waiting, and more waiting, and finally Dr. L-- showed up. He answered more of my questions. Yes, there'd be yet another stent left behind, but they'd use the smallest they had. No, he hadn't used a laser last time--just a basket to get the stones out. Yes, he'd prescribe extra pain meds for the upcoming stent, since he knew I had so many problems.
Whenever he mentioned a stent, I had to put my hands over my face to shut out the fear. "Taking the stent out is almost as bad as the operation," I said, shaking again.
"I could put it on a string," he said. "It's inconvenient, but it makes taking the stent out a lot easier. I could give you another Valium and have you come in to the office for it."
"I hate that scope," I said. "Hate, hate, hate it."
So he said he'd use a string.
And then they gave me a dose of Versed, which made me a little dizzy, but I was determined to hang on to memory. The rest of the surgical team showed up, and I knew all of them except one guy, who was standing in the background. He was young and very handsome.
"Are you ready?" said Dr. L--.
"Who is that?" I asked, pointing.
The man introduced himself as a resident who'd be assisting. Later, Darwin told me he was trying not to laugh because, due to the Versed, my "who is that?" came out as a cat-call. When that happened, the anesthetist, who was also gay, caught Darwin's eye behind my back and winked, which only made things worse for Darwin. I don't remember it going that way, but that's what Darwin says happened.
They wheeled my bed down to the operating room, leaving Darwin behind. I hate losing my memory, and made a determined effort to remember what I saw: shelves of medical equipment, metal carts, cupboards, people in scrubs, a set of sinks with huge faucets. In the OR, one more person remarked on my gown being on backwards, and I gave my standard answer.
They moved me to the table, and there were the stirrups again. Dr. L-- promised to put extra padding on them this time so my legs wouldn't be cramped when I woke up. The anesthetist put a mask on me--
--and I was back in another room, surrounded by curtains. Everything was heavy and dark. I managed to crack an eye open and saw a female nurse typing at a portable computer station. I shut my eyes again, unhappy. For these procedures, I don't want women handling me, and I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just have to get through this."
A few moments later, a male nurse in scrubs came in. "I'll take over," he said, and the woman left. Oh, I was happy. I don't know if my chart said something about my past history so they gave me a male, or if it was coincidence, but I was glad nonetheless.
I hurt, but not nearly as much as before, and I wasn't nauseated. The anesthetist had done his job well.
Still, I was climbing out of heavy darkness, with every limb weighed down and my head swimming. The nurse shook my foot and called my name loudly. "Are you awake?" he boomed.
My eyes were open, but I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded a little.
"My name is Craig," he said. "It looks like everything went well. You'll have to void your bladder, and then you can go home."
"Did they put in a stent?" I croaked.
"They did."
Here my heart sank. I hadn't realized how much I'd been hoping Dr. L-- would have changed his mind about that.
"Where's Darwin?" I asked. "I need Darwin."
"Who's Darwin?" Craig asked.
Shouldn't this be on my chart? I wondered. "He's my husband. I want to see him."
"First we should--"
"I want my husband!"
Craig shrugged, took out a phone, and asked for Darwin's number. I lay back and dozed off again, but a few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw him walking through the ward toward me with a big smile, and I felt so wonderful seeing his cheerful face. He kissed me.
"You look a lot better than last time," he said. "I'm so glad."
I was taking stock now. My legs didn't hurt. My lower body hurt only a little. I could feel the painkillers sliding through me, dulling the pain.
My gown was on the wrong way. Yes, some anal-retentive nurse or orderly had stripped my gown off, turned it around, and fed my arms through it. Whoever the asshole was hadn't even bothered to tie it shut, either. It felt petty and bullying. "Yeah, he won't put the gown on the way =we= want, so we'll just knock him out. See if he can stop us then!" Fuckwads. I hate hospitals and their pissy personnel.
I checked under the sheet.
WARNING: GRAPHIC STUFF TO FOLLOW!
( Read more... )
When it was over, I leaned back on the bed, panting. Craig the Nurse ran a scan and announced my bladder has half empty. "You can go home soon," he said.
I gave him a "what the fuck do you know?" look. I couldn't even sit up and piss, let alone go home. At least I wasn't crying this time! I don't know what the anesthetist did, but that was a relief. Bawling in the ward on Darwin's shirt was no great fun last time, and it was nice not to weather it this time.
An Asian man came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wong. I recognized his name from the paperwork on my last operation, but I'd never seen him before.
"I don't remember you," I said drunkenly.
He sighed. "No one ever does. It's the curse of my position."
He went over post-op stuff with Darwin, because I kept falling asleep. He reiterated what Darwin had said--that the first stent was gone, there were no stones in my left side, the calcified tissue is harmless (though it may generate more stones and I should get a yearly x-ray to check), and there were a lot of drugs for me to take. I lay there, feeling stupid and helpless and weak.
Then came some better news: because no stones had come out, the stent could be removed in a couple days instead of staying in a week. (!)
After Dr. Wong left, Craig the Nurse stepped away as well. I turned to Darwin. "I need to use the urinal again. Maybe I should stand up."
Darwin helped me to my feet. I leaned heavily on him and tried the urinal. This time it worked more easily, but it was still so painful I couldn't help howling. The strings hanging out felt strange as well. They gave--still give--me the sensation that I'm dribbling all the time.
I got back into bed and rested some more. Darwin chatted with Craig, who returned. I just tried to gather strength. This operation hadn't been nearly as bad for me as the previous one, though it had lasted just as long--two hours. I'm sure the fact that they hadn't made multiple trips down my urinary canal dragging stones in a basket made a major difference. Darwin repeated that I looked a lot better than last time.
Darwin had also, at my request, recorded his meeting with Dr. L-- after the surgery. (I asked him to do this because, much as I adore Darwin, he's awful at remembering medical details and makes vague statements like, "The doctor said it was fine.") Listening to the recording helped keep me calm because I felt more informed.
Finally, it was time to go home. Same routine as before: Darwin ran ahead to get the car while some lady pushed me through the hallways in a wheelchair. Out front, Darwin helped me into the car and we drove home.
At home, I was resting in bed. Darwin brought me a snack--
--and suddenly I burst into tears. I cried and cried and cried while Darwin held me. I couldn't get myself back under control, and I said all the things I'd said last time, that I felt stupid, that I couldn't stop, that I felt weak. This time, though, there was an element of release. This was my last operation, and the doctor had confirmed it was over, and everything I'd been holding in came pouring out.
"It's a delayed reaction," Darwin said, stroking my head. "Just get through it, you'll be fine."
And I kept crying. So the anesthetist was only able to delay the inevitable.
Going to the bathroom is still a horrible chore. The stent--now on my left again--rips up my insides no matter what, and the strings hanging out of me make things touchier. And once the hospital painkillers wore off, I was hurting again. More pills!
That night, I woke up with an entirely new problem.
GRAPHIC STUFF BEHIND THE CUT
( Read more... )
Darwin, to his chagrin, was enlisted to help me pull the tape off. It was a three-hand job to do it without yanking the stent out. We succeeded, but I didn't like the much longer strings hanging free. They kept catching on the inside of my clothes and tugging painfully. Finally, Darwin drove me to the drug store and we found the same kind of surgical tape the hospital had used. We bought a packet, and back home Darwin had the fun job of helping me retape the strings, this time with an appropriate amount of slack. (Don't ask how we figured this out!)
Meanwhile, I made an appointment at the urologist's for Friday to get the stent removed. I could technically do it myself--all you have to do is pull the string--but the thought makes me shake, so I'm going in to have someone else do it while I'm on Valium. On Friday, everything will be over at last.
comments
