I’ve never had a kidney stone, and I’m glad I haven’t. Yes, that is a selfish thought. Kidney stones scare the p*ss out of me.
In the mid-80s The Husband and I lived near where he worked, and since I used to commute to New York, I was out of the house well before it was time for him to get up to go to work. Imagine my alarm when one Spring morning I wake up really early because I was hearing groaning coming from the guest room, and when I called The Husband’s name he didn’t answer.
Now, I’m not the bravest blogger around (or should I say, pre-blogger since the web wasn’t yet), but I jumped out of bed, put on a robe over my pajama as I gathered my courage, and rushed into the guest room. The Husband was grey-pale, bending over in agony over the twin-size bed, unable to speak.
I had never, ever seen him in such a horrible state. That’s the only time when I’ve seen him in such pain. It was awful to see.
I immediately said I’d call an ambulance, but he Did.Not.Want.An.Ambulance. I said nothing, got dressed and told him I was taking him to the hospital. At this point he was so nauseous he was holding a small garbage can on his hands since he knew he wouldn’t make it to the bathroom, so he couldn’t argue.
While I got the car out of the garage and next to the nearest door, he managed to put on a pair of slacks over his pajama and a brand-new very nice pair of shoes. Big mistake, those shoes.
We get to the emergency room which was only 10 minutes away from our house, I stop the car exactly by the entrance, help him get out (while he put down the little garbage can) and walk with him leaning on my shoulder to the nurses’ station. “Kidney stone”, says the nurse just from looking at him.
I went and parked the car. After I found a parking spot and walked back to the building The Husband was lying on a stretcher in full view of anyone coming into the Emergency Room, wearing only an IV on his arm, a plastic ID bracelet, and one of those little hospital nightgowns with 2 strings that tie on your back. If it weren’t for the sheet they (mercifully) draped over his naughty bits, it would have been a full-nudity situation. The Husband’s 6’4″ and on the hefty side, and those little nightgowns leave nothing to the imagination. I completed the hospital paperwork, and he looked glad to see me as they carted him away for lab tests. I told him I had to go home to call our respective employers so they knew we would be absent, and our parents. Back then in pre-cell phone days I had to go home and call.
When I got back to the Emergency Room I had some trouble finding The Husband, but sure enough, he was still there, heavily medicated. He was still grey but wasn’t groaning. The doctor came over and told me that it was one small kidney stone, said we could go home, gave me a small sieve for when the stone passed, a list of instructions, and told me to call him back when The Husband passed the stone.
But where were his clothes, I asked? The doctor said, “They’re in a bag right next to the bed.” After a pause, he muttered, “There’s no bag,” and disappeared.
I would have left without the clothes – had the hospital been amenable to lending us a sheet for modesty – since the particular trousers were old. But the shoes were new, and The Husband hates shopping for shoes because he wears a size 13 wide and those aren’t easy to find.
It took me over an hour and I canvassed every person – patients included – in the emergency room but found the shoes, along with the clothes.
On the way home, The Husband remembered that we were scheduled to travel to England with his mom and his sister the upcoming Saturday (it was Tuesday), and asked me to leave him home and go on the trip without him. “Out of the question!” I said, before he even finished his sentence.
He passed the kidney stone two days later, recovered immediately and hasn’t had any other occurrences. The trip to the UK was a success and we had a great time.
I’m praying that The Anchoress has as great an outcome.
Dr. Sanity has the Carnival.