Just Another Day At The Beach
You can always tell the people who really love you. They’re the ones who write to ask for medical results in advance of the regular Thursday column. We love you back.
For the rest of you, there is good news and bad news. The good news is Bill had a kidney stone. And the bad news is Bill had a kidney stone. Good news because among the possible reasons for blood in the urine, kidney stones are among the least egregious. Bad news because it is not a good thing that one’s kidneys keep producing these little fellows, which can often be very painful, hang around for weeks and, on rare occasions, cause your kidneys to stop draining, necessitating a stent. Even the mildly bothersome ones can leave you out of sorts—gassy with a constant need to urinate, dizzy and lightheaded from the Flomax medication you take to chase away the stones. Anyway, let me tell you about my day, Friday March 30th, 2012. I’m sure yours was much better.
Some Days Are Diamonds, Some Days Are Stones
You’ll remember I was a little concerned about my schedule for last Friday what with medical appointments here, there and everywhere. That worked out fine. Dr. Fisher at the Dermatology Clinic looked at the basal cell carcinoma on my collarbone, marched over and picked up her little blade and came back and began chopping away.
“These cancer cells aren’t very tough,” she said, disparagingly. “They just break up quickly when you get after them.” Ten minutes later she was done.
“Gee, that was easy,” I told her.
“You need easy,” she said, “what with the rest of your day being so pleasant. Good luck.”
I would have celebrated with a nice McDonald’s breakfast if the crabby CT Scan people didn’t insist you refrain from food and drink within two hours of your test. I trooped on over to Shands Radiology for the next event.
The lady who greeted me looked like a younger version of Kathy Bates. Very chipper.
“Would you like to relieve your bladder?” she asked, merrily.
“Don’t mind if I do!” I told her, appreciative of the concern.
When I came back to the waiting room, she was there waiting for me with a big smile on her face and a large bottle of Aquafina. She handed me the water. I looked at her quizzically, appreciating the irony here.
“Try to drink at least half,” she requested. “It helps with the contrast.”
“Happy to oblige.” Then she flew off like Mary Poppins, leaving me to freeze to death in the little waiting room. Have you ever had one of these scans? If not, bring your parka. You know how everybody told us this was perhaps the warmest winter ever—except, of course, over on the Black Sea, a section of which froze for the first time ever? We’re talking Black Sea here. I can appreciate the fact that these nice expensive machines require arctic temperatures in which to thrive but can we do something about the waiting rooms? Anyway, after about 45 minutes of this, I started to emigrate to the warmer hall outside. Just then, the technician opened the door and bade me inside. It was even colder in there, of course, but they let you have blankets for the CT Scan.
You won’t believe this but in the early part of this test an evil nurse comes in and injects—are you ready?—RADIOACTIVE DYE—into the catheter which Kathy Bates had previously plunged into your arm.
“This might feel a little uncomfortable,” the horrible nurse will tell you and she’s right. In spades. An odd warm feeling swoops over your body. You have a sudden inclination to urinate (don’t). There is an extraterrestrial metallic taste in your mouth. It’s like a bad acid trip. Fortunately, however, it’s over fairly quickly. They yoyo you back and forth through the machine a few times with your hands over your head while a mechanical voice advises you when to breathe and when to hold your breath. Then, abruptly, it’s done. Whatever secrets you have hidden in your body will soon be revealed by the all-penetrating eye of the CT Scan machine. Ain’t Science wonderful?
Would You Like Fries With That?
I was starved so of course I drove down to McDonald’s for a greasy bag of fries and a lemonade. My friends were appalled at such behavior but I hasten to advise that those fries are not at all responsible for kidney stones and the lemonade, as everybody knows, is a big deterrent. Besides, I deserved some kind of reward for all this torture and if a little bag of fries would help to salve my wounds, well, who’s to criticize? I needed to fortify myself for Chapter III, The Cystoscopy. Any men who may be reading this column will probably want to put it down and leave now because the rest of the story is not pleasant and this could be happening to you some day, although I certainly hope not.
Here’s Looking At You, Pal….
Everybody has had medical procedures which are not pleasant. When I was a little boy, about five, I had my tonsils out. At home. On the kitchen table. I had an inkling something was up because there was a doctor’s car parked in front of our house for an unusually long period of time. I knew it was a doctor’s car because they used to have those little green crosses attached to the license plates. Doctors, of course, made house calls in those days, but I had no reason to suspect they were coming for me since nobody told me about it. Our doctor’s name was Leonard Bennett Ainsworth, and, ordinarily, he seemed like a fairly nice man. This day, however, he would assist in slamming me on the table, helping to pin me down while other traitorous members of my very own family assisted in this terrorism. Then, he gassed me with ether, the primitive substitute for anesthesia these cavedoctors used in those days. Where is Stuart Ellison when you really need him? Finally, Dr. Ainsworth pried loose my tonsils—whatever the hell they were—and left me a bloody heap on the table. I woke up later in bed with my guilt-ridden family trying to appease me with gallons of ice cream. It worked but it made me paranoid for life. If your very own family will attack you like that, where are you safe?
“Where did you learn those words you were yelling at us when we put you on the table?” my mother wanted to know.
“In grandpa’s bar,” I told her, not feeling guilty one bit. “You all deserved them, too. I wish I knew more.”
Anyway, I walked into Dr. Su’s office at the UF Cancer Pavilion and they went through the usual prep work, blood-pressure, etc. Then, Frank came to get me. Frank was in his late fifties and looked like an ex-hippie. I think they hired him for his capacity to empathize with the poor bastards who were going in for cystoscopies. Frank gave me an antibiotic and watched me take it. Then he led me to a very nice dressing room where he had laid out my pretty blue gown. Then he had me lay down on a nice table where he painted the cystoscopy (penile) area with a fetching shade of betadine.
“Have you ever had a cystoscopy?” Frank wanted to know.
“Fortunately not,” I told him.
“Well, have you ever had a catheter?” I told him I did.
“Good,” he said. “And has anyone described to you how we will be proceeding today?”
“Um, not really….”
“Well,” said Frank, as gently as possible, “We have to look inside your bladder. Do you know how we do that?
“Magic Mirror?”
“Nope.”
“X-Ray Vision?”
“Nope.”
“Transcendental Meditation?”
“Not that, either.”
“Well, gee, Frank, stop beating around the bush—I’m running out of ideas here.”
Frank’s eyes went to this very long black plastic hose-looking thing which was laying on a table beside the bed.
“NO!” I said, incredulous. “Surely you jest, Frank, that’s much too, well—thick.”
“You’d be surprised what we can get in there,” said Frank, reassuringly.
“But Frank—I don’t want to be surprised.”
Frank said that first we must insert some antibiotics “which will burn.” Ouch. “Burn” might be gilding the lilly a bit. Then “we” had to put in a little lubricant to grease the skids. The lubricant was worse than the antibiotic. Finally, all was in readiness and Dr. Su’s crew marched in to do the deed. It does not feel wonderful to have the giant tube inserted but it is not as bad as you expect. Plus you get the benefit of viewing on a large screen set up next to the bed the same picture the doctors see.
“There’s the stone, hiding behind the ureter,” says Dr. Su. That red material is a little blood. The stone is right on the verge of going into your bladder. There’s a ninety percent chance you’ll pass it without any trouble. If, on the other hand, you begin to get painful or get a temperature of 101 or more, head straight for the emergency room—sometimes the kidneys get blocked and you have to deal with it right away.” He asked if I had any questions. I thought he probably didn’t know if your chewing gum lost its flavor on the bedpost overnight so I said no, no questions. “Take Flomax before you go to bed at night,” he added. “Help to speed things along.” And then, like the Lone Ranger, his work was done and he was off to save the next patient. Frank picked me up and shoveled me back into the dressing room. He asked me how I felt. I told him that much as I tried to welcome new experiences into my life I would just as soon be chased by wild dogs, naked and covered in rabbit blood, as return to the cystoscopy studio. He nodded his understanding.
“Nothing personal, though, Frank. I think you are a wonderful human being.” He flushed his gratitude.
What Happened Then, Uncle Bill?
Five days later, after running on the treadmill at the gym for half an hour, I went in to the bathroom and spit out the 4 mm stone. I gathered it up to mail to Dr. Su, as instructed. Either he likes to analyze these things to try to get at the root of your trouble or he keeps a wonderful collection on the wall of his den at home. Either way, I am glad to have it gone. Sad to ponder, I am sure there will be a little brother or sister stone along soon enough but I will try to enjoy my respite and take whatever corrective measures are available, within reason. I am most assuredly not scraping the salt off my fries nor am I giving up ice cream. Let the stones fall where they may.
There’s Also GOOD News!
Puck has returned from his period of isolation (with Mary Margaret) and been returned to his playmates, Hannah and Shamu, in the yearling field. Mary Margaret is back with Pitznoggle at the Hollis farm. And Pogo, in his first little mini-work, easily conquered his workmate, a horse with a $100,000 stud fee. Trainer Barry Eisaman, ever the jester, smilingly asked, “Wanna swap?”
That’s all, folks….
