The Stoning of Steven, Part II
Last week, I switched urologists. I didn't want to see my previous urologist any more because of the office's major lack of communication and even withholding of information from me.
When I called the office Dr. B--, my new urologist, I was more than a little shocked to get an appointment within a few days. (My previous urologist was booking into December at the earliest.) I'd have to take a day off work to see him, but I wasn't going to endanger an early meeting by trying to schedule something for later in the day.
I spent a big chunk of the morning zipping around town to gather up records, including my MRI images and x-rays. I brought them with me to my appointment.
Dr. B-- ran a quick eye over my papers and asked about my diagnosis. Then he gave me some information about kidney stone prevention, said he would look over my images, and said we should set up an appointment for shock wave lithotripsy. He would call later if anything changed.
We set up an appointment for lithotripsy and I went home. Okay, then. Quick and simple.
Except...
On Monday during my prep period, Dr. B-- called me. He'd reviewed my images and discovered a whole bunch of stones instead of just the two I'd told him about. In fact, I had kidney stones in BOTH kidneys, not just some remaining on the right side. My previous urologist hadn't removed all the stones from my left side AND she hadn't told me this fact. She'd lead me to believe my left side was clear.
This information stabbed me badly in places already wounded. My hands were shaking and I was half in panic.
Dr. B-- continued. He said he couldn't do shock wave lithotripsy with this many stones. It was outside his expertise. Instead, I should see a nephrologist, a kidney specialist. He gave me a couple of names and phone numbers and hung up.
I was stunned. I'd been ready for a short, low-pain lithotripsy treatment. Now I was looking at something far more complicated, and the panic was getting worse. All the red-alert buttons were being punched, and I was in fight-or-flight mode.
I forced myself to sit down and call the first number on the list. This doctor was located at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. The pleasant receptionist, unaware of my emotional state, looked over the schedule and said they could get me in on Friday. This was Monday, and I was a little startled again at how fast they were able to get me in. (My original urologist had clearly put me into the same frame of mind as a victim of domestic abuse--expecting pain and difficulty and delay with every phone call.)
This meant I would have to take Friday off work as well, but once again, I wasn't going to give up the chance to get in ASAP. I took the appointment. Then I called Darwin in Texas, in full-blown panic now, and he did his best to calm me down. He said he'd come to the appointment with me.
Somehow I got through the rest of the day. Then a major water main broke, wiping out the water supply for a big chunk of the county, and school was canceled Tuesday and Wednesday. This was a major boon. I wasn't in much a condition to work.
Friday morning, Darwin drove me to the appointment to see Dr. L--, the nephrologist.
It took some doing to get to the appointment. Henry Ford is a HUGE hospital, with multiple wings that don't connect to each other, and multiple banks of elevators to them. The bank we needed had two broken elevators, and the line to get on the ones that still worked reminded me of an SF convention. But eventually we got up to the ninth floor.
The nurse took Darwin and me back to an examination room, took some information from me, and announced I needed an x-ray. They had one in the office, so I went down and got it right away. This was easy enough. I didn't have to take my clothes off.
A few minutes later, Dr. L-- came into the exam room. He seemed pleasant enough, and I started off my telling him that my previous experiences with my stones had caused some severe emotional trauma because of my history of sexual assault, and that I was being treated for PTSD over it. Part of coping for me is to know every single detail of every single procedure and be heavily involved in all decision-making. He made sympathetic noises and agreed, which did make me feel better.
He called up the new x-ray and quickly pointed out the current set of stones--three small ones on the left (despite my previous urologist's ministrations) and three larger ones on the right. The largest on the right was 7.8 mm. I'd originally been told it was 5 mm.
I nearly passed out. As it was, I was forced to retreat several steps while the doctor explained. The ones on the right definitely need to come out. The best way is to go in with a scope and yank them out, just like my previous urologist did on my left. Yes, this would involve inserting a stent and removing it about a week later.
I was dizzy now, and Darwin had to help me cope. It all rushed at me again--me lying unconscious and splayed out on a table while people shoved plastic tubes down my throat and wide metal ones up my urethra--and my legs were shaking. I knew it was a reaction to the assaults and not to this procedure, but the knowledge didn't help.
Noticing my distress, the doctor said he could try shock wave lithotripsy. It would be less painful and not involve a stent. However, I with this many stones, I would have to come back four or five times.
He also said that the stones on the other side should probably come out, though it was possible they'd pass on their own. He didn't seem to think it was a good idea to wait, though. "But we can discuss that later," he added.
I hung there, uncertain about what to do. Go through the horrible procedure again, live with the painful stent again, deal with the horrible pain (and the anticipation thereof) of the stent coming out--or have less pain but continue treatment for an unspecified number of months?
In the end, I folded my hands under my arms and said to take them out with the scope.
The doctor nodded, and I hit him with a number of rapid fire questions that he willingly answered. Then he took me to the guy who scheduled their surgeries.
I was expecting a wait of a month or more, which was adding to my anxiety--until the stones are out, I can at any moment get a max-level pain attack that sends me back to the hospital. But the scheduler offered up an appointment on Wednesday, only a few days away.
I took it and shakily headed back down to the ground floor with Darwin doing his best to keep me from panicking.
As it happened, my counselor had a slot free that afternoon, so I went to see him. I dragged Darwin with me--he dislikes therapy of any sort, even when he isn't the focus--so he could meet my counselor and see how to help me cope.
Now I'm waiting until Wednesday. I'm taking Thursday and Friday off work as well. After the last procedure, the doctor said, "You can return to normal activity tomorrow," and I was in such awful pain I could barely function, let alone "return to normal activity." I was miserable at work. So this time I'm not even going to try.
I'm living in a dreadful kind of anticipation. It's not as bad as last time. Dr. L-- is a man, which helps immensely. I know more what to expect, and what questions to ask. (I already have a list of them for surgery day.) I have my counselor to help me through it, too.
The trouble is that I don't have any time to heal. My counselor points out that recovering from major trauma takes time, but I'm not getting any. I keep having to consent to further violations, which tears up any healing I've had so far and forces me to start over.
I'm also losing pieces of myself. Fiction writing is difficult in the extreme. More than a month after the original shitstorm, I can barely squeeze out two pages at a time. Everyone, including my counselor, says, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break. Take time to heal."
The trouble is, I =love= writing. It's one of the central focuses of my life. I live for spinning characters and stories out of thin air. Writing isn't a punishment or something to be eagerly avoided, given a decent excuse like the above. Writing is fun, and a source of stress relief, and a way of expressing myself, and a huge part of my identity. So telling me to "give myself a break" is like saying, "Don't worry that you can't do the thing you love. Focus on these things you hate instead." Not being able to write stops my emotional healing process. One of the biggest positives in my life, something I look forward to doing, has been stolen from me, and it's devastating.
I'm looking forward to Wednesday, so I can get this next stage over with, but I fear it even more.
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When I called the office Dr. B--, my new urologist, I was more than a little shocked to get an appointment within a few days. (My previous urologist was booking into December at the earliest.) I'd have to take a day off work to see him, but I wasn't going to endanger an early meeting by trying to schedule something for later in the day.
I spent a big chunk of the morning zipping around town to gather up records, including my MRI images and x-rays. I brought them with me to my appointment.
Dr. B-- ran a quick eye over my papers and asked about my diagnosis. Then he gave me some information about kidney stone prevention, said he would look over my images, and said we should set up an appointment for shock wave lithotripsy. He would call later if anything changed.
We set up an appointment for lithotripsy and I went home. Okay, then. Quick and simple.
Except...
On Monday during my prep period, Dr. B-- called me. He'd reviewed my images and discovered a whole bunch of stones instead of just the two I'd told him about. In fact, I had kidney stones in BOTH kidneys, not just some remaining on the right side. My previous urologist hadn't removed all the stones from my left side AND she hadn't told me this fact. She'd lead me to believe my left side was clear.
This information stabbed me badly in places already wounded. My hands were shaking and I was half in panic.
Dr. B-- continued. He said he couldn't do shock wave lithotripsy with this many stones. It was outside his expertise. Instead, I should see a nephrologist, a kidney specialist. He gave me a couple of names and phone numbers and hung up.
I was stunned. I'd been ready for a short, low-pain lithotripsy treatment. Now I was looking at something far more complicated, and the panic was getting worse. All the red-alert buttons were being punched, and I was in fight-or-flight mode.
I forced myself to sit down and call the first number on the list. This doctor was located at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit. The pleasant receptionist, unaware of my emotional state, looked over the schedule and said they could get me in on Friday. This was Monday, and I was a little startled again at how fast they were able to get me in. (My original urologist had clearly put me into the same frame of mind as a victim of domestic abuse--expecting pain and difficulty and delay with every phone call.)
This meant I would have to take Friday off work as well, but once again, I wasn't going to give up the chance to get in ASAP. I took the appointment. Then I called Darwin in Texas, in full-blown panic now, and he did his best to calm me down. He said he'd come to the appointment with me.
Somehow I got through the rest of the day. Then a major water main broke, wiping out the water supply for a big chunk of the county, and school was canceled Tuesday and Wednesday. This was a major boon. I wasn't in much a condition to work.
Friday morning, Darwin drove me to the appointment to see Dr. L--, the nephrologist.
It took some doing to get to the appointment. Henry Ford is a HUGE hospital, with multiple wings that don't connect to each other, and multiple banks of elevators to them. The bank we needed had two broken elevators, and the line to get on the ones that still worked reminded me of an SF convention. But eventually we got up to the ninth floor.
The nurse took Darwin and me back to an examination room, took some information from me, and announced I needed an x-ray. They had one in the office, so I went down and got it right away. This was easy enough. I didn't have to take my clothes off.
A few minutes later, Dr. L-- came into the exam room. He seemed pleasant enough, and I started off my telling him that my previous experiences with my stones had caused some severe emotional trauma because of my history of sexual assault, and that I was being treated for PTSD over it. Part of coping for me is to know every single detail of every single procedure and be heavily involved in all decision-making. He made sympathetic noises and agreed, which did make me feel better.
He called up the new x-ray and quickly pointed out the current set of stones--three small ones on the left (despite my previous urologist's ministrations) and three larger ones on the right. The largest on the right was 7.8 mm. I'd originally been told it was 5 mm.
I nearly passed out. As it was, I was forced to retreat several steps while the doctor explained. The ones on the right definitely need to come out. The best way is to go in with a scope and yank them out, just like my previous urologist did on my left. Yes, this would involve inserting a stent and removing it about a week later.
I was dizzy now, and Darwin had to help me cope. It all rushed at me again--me lying unconscious and splayed out on a table while people shoved plastic tubes down my throat and wide metal ones up my urethra--and my legs were shaking. I knew it was a reaction to the assaults and not to this procedure, but the knowledge didn't help.
Noticing my distress, the doctor said he could try shock wave lithotripsy. It would be less painful and not involve a stent. However, I with this many stones, I would have to come back four or five times.
He also said that the stones on the other side should probably come out, though it was possible they'd pass on their own. He didn't seem to think it was a good idea to wait, though. "But we can discuss that later," he added.
I hung there, uncertain about what to do. Go through the horrible procedure again, live with the painful stent again, deal with the horrible pain (and the anticipation thereof) of the stent coming out--or have less pain but continue treatment for an unspecified number of months?
In the end, I folded my hands under my arms and said to take them out with the scope.
The doctor nodded, and I hit him with a number of rapid fire questions that he willingly answered. Then he took me to the guy who scheduled their surgeries.
I was expecting a wait of a month or more, which was adding to my anxiety--until the stones are out, I can at any moment get a max-level pain attack that sends me back to the hospital. But the scheduler offered up an appointment on Wednesday, only a few days away.
I took it and shakily headed back down to the ground floor with Darwin doing his best to keep me from panicking.
As it happened, my counselor had a slot free that afternoon, so I went to see him. I dragged Darwin with me--he dislikes therapy of any sort, even when he isn't the focus--so he could meet my counselor and see how to help me cope.
Now I'm waiting until Wednesday. I'm taking Thursday and Friday off work as well. After the last procedure, the doctor said, "You can return to normal activity tomorrow," and I was in such awful pain I could barely function, let alone "return to normal activity." I was miserable at work. So this time I'm not even going to try.
I'm living in a dreadful kind of anticipation. It's not as bad as last time. Dr. L-- is a man, which helps immensely. I know more what to expect, and what questions to ask. (I already have a list of them for surgery day.) I have my counselor to help me through it, too.
The trouble is that I don't have any time to heal. My counselor points out that recovering from major trauma takes time, but I'm not getting any. I keep having to consent to further violations, which tears up any healing I've had so far and forces me to start over.
I'm also losing pieces of myself. Fiction writing is difficult in the extreme. More than a month after the original shitstorm, I can barely squeeze out two pages at a time. Everyone, including my counselor, says, "Don't be so hard on yourself. Give yourself a break. Take time to heal."
The trouble is, I =love= writing. It's one of the central focuses of my life. I live for spinning characters and stories out of thin air. Writing isn't a punishment or something to be eagerly avoided, given a decent excuse like the above. Writing is fun, and a source of stress relief, and a way of expressing myself, and a huge part of my identity. So telling me to "give myself a break" is like saying, "Don't worry that you can't do the thing you love. Focus on these things you hate instead." Not being able to write stops my emotional healing process. One of the biggest positives in my life, something I look forward to doing, has been stolen from me, and it's devastating.
I'm looking forward to Wednesday, so I can get this next stage over with, but I fear it even more.
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