Watson, our cat, is walking around the house, making his morning announcements. I pry my eyes open, and see that there is the faintest hint of soft, grey light pushing itself against the edges of our bedroom shades.
I don’t feel too tired, surprisingly, and I lie in bed while I decide if I’m going to just go ahead and get up. I have a commitment in the evening, and I’ll probably be really wiped out by the time it’s over, but on the other hand, I won’t be struggling to fall asleep before midnight … unless my brain pulls the same bullshit it’s been pulling for weeks.
The next thing I know, the sun is blazing through the windows and I can hear Anne. She doesn’t sound good. She’s breathing heavily and making sounds like she’s in pain. So I get out of bed, and I’m in the other room before I’m fully awake. She’s clutching her side and writhing in pain.
“Something’s wrong,” she says. “I need you to take me to the emergency room.”
That’s all it takes for my brain to throw off any lingering sleepiness. Before I realize it, I’m dressed and ready to leave. We drive to the emergency room, and she’s in so much pain now that she can’t stand up. She tells me that her hands are getting numb and she feels like she’s going to pass out. The ER receptionist doesn’t seem to think any of this is serious, and barks at me to sit down and wait.
I know that everyone who comes into the ER is certain that they have the worst thing that’s ever happened, and I know that it gets tiring for the receptionist. I also believe that if you can’t be compassionate and patient, maybe it’s not the best job for you to have. I also know that there’s no point in having an argument right now, and my energy is better spent trying to help my increasingly panicking wife.
So another hospital guy comes over and asks what’s going on. I tell him, and he calmly listens. He tells Anne that she’s going to be okay, and he’ll get her into triage as quickly as possible.
There, I think, that wasn’t so hard.
Time takes on the strange malleability that comes with intense stress. It slows down and speeds up and doesn’t seem to move at the fixed rate I’ve come to expect from a lifetime of existence. After some amount of time that isn’t as long as I think it is, but not fast enough for me, we are in triage. The nurse is gentle and compassionate. She asks Anne lots of questions while I sit quietly and try to stay out of the way. They take her vitals. She has no fever, but her pulse is as high as you’d expect.
We are moved into a room, and they put her in a bed. She’s crying harder than I’ve seen in over twenty years together. I remember the last time we were in this ER, our roles reversed. I vaguely recall that Anne remained calm, and it helped me, so I do my best to do the same.
A nurse puts a needle into her arm and draws blood. Another nurse comes in and puts some morphine into her. It doesn’t help, so they give her more. That helps a little bit, but it’s still not enough. They can’t do anything else until a doctor gives the okay, and someone has just come into the ER who is in a more life-threatening situation, so we wait.
More time passes, and a doctor comes in. He gives her all the same tests she’s already been given. She continues to endure the worst pain I’ve ever witnessed in our twenty-plus years together. “This is worse than both times I gave birth,” she says, trying to make a joke to the doctor, but the clear agony in her voice claws at my heart. She’s suffering and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Finally, the doctor orders some more morphine, and now time becomes very clear because I count each of the twenty-seven minutes she waits until someone brings it in for her. I know that she isn’t in life-threatening danger, and we both know that the ER is very busy, but our emotional brains and our rational brains are experiencing that knowledge in very different ways.
She gets another push of morphine. The nurse tells us that once the morphine starts to work, they’re going to get a urine sample and then do a CT scan. Another twenty minutes goes by, because everything happens in twenty minute increments when you’re in pain but not in danger. They take her to get a CT scan, and I walk out to find something to eat.
It’s a beautiful day. It’s one of the most beautiful days we’ve had in a long time, sunny but not too hot. We had planned to spend it working in the patio garden, and building a window box for our front porch that will get filled with sunflowers. I walk up the street and into a cafe, where I get a coffee and a sandwich. A lady behind me is impatient. She has the voice and body language of someone whose experience at the hospital is not as routine as ours is. I pay as fast as I can so I can get out of her way, and I silently wish her well. I get my sandwich and my coffee. Neither is as good as what I’d make at home, but I don’t complain. I remember the lady behind me, the people in the ER who have sick babies, the woman the ambulance brought in who had a stroke, and doesn’t know her name or where she is. Her adult daughter, who is more tired and sad than worried.
I finish my sandwich on my way back to Anne’s room. She isn’t there when I sit down. I open my phone and start reading a book I’ve been wanting to read. Another twenty minutes goes by and they bring her back in. The meds are working, and she has her humor back. She isn’t as pale. She looks like my wife again. We wait for an hour (three blocks of twenty minutes) for the test results. Patients fill up the hallway, and we’re grateful that we have a room with just one bed in it. A woman in the room next to us can’t stop throwing up. Someone at the nurse’s station has an alert on their phone that sounds like the Hanna-Barbera running in place effect when they get an alert, and they seem to be getting one about every thirty seconds or so. A nursery rhyme tune plays in all the overhead speakers, because someone has just given birth. I email the people I’m supposed to be working with in three hours and tell them I have to cancel because I’m spending the entire day in the emergency room.
Anne drifts in and out of sleep, and I read until my battery dies. The doctor comes in and tells her that there isn’t anything on the CT scan, or the MRI, and that her blood and urine are all clear and normal. She’s presenting all the symptoms of someone who has a kidney stone, but they can’t find anything in her tests to confirm it. Apparently, this happens in thirty percent of cases. That seems like a lot of percent, I say. The doctor is not amused. I shut up and try to disappear again.
They give her more pain meds because we’ve been there so long, the first two doses are wearing off. We have to wait another hour, and then we can go home. I get my notebook out and break a story that I’ve been thinking about for awhile. I get up and walk around a little bit. I begin to worry about my wife, because she’s clearly having a problem, clearly in distress, clearly in all kinds of pain, and the doctors and nurses can’t tell us, definitively, why. I decide that she’s suffering because of a small dwarf, or spirit, living in her stomach. I am not amused. I get a brain zap, and realize that I forgot to take my antidepressants before we left, and I have just about ninety minutes (twenty times four plus half of twenty minutes) before the dizziness, nausea, and other fun withdrawal starts. I don’t tell this to Anne, because she doesn’t need another thing to worry about.
An hour later, we get ourselves together so we can leave. A lady I haven’t seen before wheels in a computer and tells us we have a co-payment. She’s friendly, but all business, very different from the rest of the staff. I pay her. She gives me a receipt and I tuck it into a folder that we’re to take to our doctor within three days if Anne doesn’t improve. Neither of us knows that we’ll be at the doctor in less than 24 hours, because she won’t be better.
Anne leans on me as we walk out of the room. I’m ready to get home, eat some real food, and take my brain pills. Sounds are starting to feel louder than they are, like they’re echoing down long metal tubes. I’m going to have a headache soon. In the next room over, the vomiting lady is asleep, the stroke lady is holding her daughter’s hand. Down the all, a little boy who broke his arm is looking at his cast over tear-stained cheeks. A guy about my age who looks beaten up is in a gurney near the end of the hallway. There are two cops standing next to his bed. “I think I’m going to throw up,” Anne says. I try to find her a barf bag, give up, and ask a nurse for help.
The nurse brings her a bag, and Anne sits down in a wheelchair that is luckily next to her. The nurse is kind. She gets Anne some medication that helps with nausea. She doesn’t vomit. We both thank her, and I wheel Anne out into the parking lot. The sun is on its way down the western sky, the hospital casts a long shadow over the parking lot. I help Anne into the car and take the wheelchair back to the entrance, where an orderly takes it from me.
We get home. The dogs are on alert when we walk into the house. They can tell that something’s wrong with their Alpha Female. The sniff at her, follow her back to our bedroom, lie down at the foot of our bed when she gets into it. They don’t move until it’s time for them to eat, later, and then they go right back to where they were.
I am grateful to be home, and remind myself that we didn’t have it nearly as bad as some of the people around us today … but the worry that something more serious is going on with the most important person in my life, something that I can’t do anything about, something that I can’t identify … that worry begins to really flare up. It will continue — is happening right now, 36 hours later — and there’s nothing I can do about it but hope for the best. I take my pills, and twenty minutes later my brain is more or less back to what passes for normal in my skull. I go to the pharmacy and fill her prescriptions. I get her some soup. I come home. I make myself a basic dinner and give her canned soup because that’s what she wants when she doesn’t feel well.
I eat my food, and try to watch TV, but I can’t really focus on much of anything. I try to read more of the book I started, but I realize that I’ve gone through several pages without paying attention. I tap around on a mobile game until midnight. I wake Anne up to give her more pain pills, and then I go to sleep, myself.
It is 9am, and she’s in bad shape. We call the doctor for a 1045 appointment, which I cancel at 10 when she can’t get out of bed because she hurts so much. I finally take her at 2pm, and the doctor tells us the same thing the ER doctor told us: he doesn’t know what’s going on, but it doesn’t seem to be more serious than a kidney stone. All she can do is manage the pain and wait for the stone to pass, if that’s actually what it is. Here’s a pile of pills to try. Good luck. I am not satisfied, and want to know more, but he doesn’t have any more answers. At least he doesn’t seem concerned, so I do my best to put my trust in his professional knowledge. It doesn’t work as completely as I hope, sort of like the meds they’ve been giving Anne.
I take her home, go and fill more prescriptions, and give her more pills when I return, hoping one of them will work.
The twenty minutes I wait to find out if she’s feeling any relief seems to stretch out forever, so I sit down and write out the last 36 or so hours, because that’s how I process things.
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Wow, you wrote that so well it made me relive my turn in the ER two years ago.
Following cancer surgery I developed a staph infection. Since I had a similar experience 20 years prior, I kept pushing my doctors. They told me it was just post-surgical. Finally my husband, panicking, took me to ER. Three days till they identified the strain. Morphine or codeine did not help. Finally they gave me Dilaudid. Heaven till it wore off. Could have been cured quicker if the doctors had believed me. Took weeks on antibiotic infusion to cure it. I was at St Joseph’s and got excellent care in the ER and the hospital for a week. My advice, keep pushing till she is better.
Ovarian Torsion asked about yet? Cysts bursting are indeed also terrible, but if an ovary gets twisted around on its stalk, it’s A: painful, and B: kinda dangerous, and I hope that they ultrasounded or something for that. Please do not let the doctors treat Mysterious Pain lightly! worries
Sending all the best wishes! Hope Anne get’s better soon and this damned stone passes. And sending you courage and energy to keep calm and caring.
I can personally empathize with how much this absolutely sucks on several levels and all sides. The fear never feels exaggerated and misplaced until after the fact when you undermine your intuitions, the powerlessness drains you faster than the boredom, and the sigh of relief never comes soon enough. The hardest lesson to learn when taking care of someone you love is how to take care of yourself. And, at least for myself, it’s a lesson I have to keep relearning. For the health of you both, try to keep the brain pills handy so you don’t end up in a bed next to Anne next time. Your dogs are cute but I can tell they would be horrible when it comes to fetching soup.
My wife actually works in an ER in your area and she would have worked herself to the bone giving you guys incredible care, not because she’s a genuine fan, but because she’s just that dedicated to the job. She does it every day for everyone (which the cynic in me can’t fathom) and she even turns off her phone so patients don’t have to hear her annoying alerts. She would also be the first to tell you that doctors and nurses hate the “I’m sorry we can’t 100% identify your pain so take these pills” scenario almost as much as the patients do. Something they have to say more times a day than she’s comfortable putting a number to. I sincerely hope that any further care you require comes with a better experience.
We both look forward to the both of you fully recovering. Should you two happen to cross her path in the future, she’s under strict orders to double check that you brought what you need with you and to then briefly suspend her professionalism long enough to request an anonymous non-HIPAA-violating delivery of burritos, googly eyes, and dice to the ER, after treating the patient, of course.
(Are giant burritos, googly eyes, and random dice even still a thing around here?)
In my experience with kidney stones, the pain was more toward my back than front on the side the stone was on. The pain would not fluctuate in intensity regardless of what position I was in. As it moved, the pain would recede or disappear, and then potentially reappear when it decided to get stuck somewhere else further on in the kidney. I also would have muscles in the area “flutter” as my body tried to move things along, I guess, so if she feels non painful muscle spasms like that, it could be an indication it is actually a kidney stone. The muscle spasms would occur for me as well between painful lodgings. I hope Anne is “only” feeling the pain of a kidney stone, and that it passes if that is what it is.
I can imagine what you and Anne have each been going through, and I wouldn’t want either to happen to anyone. Wishing you both well.
Basically my experience with gallstones. Even after they removed my gallbladder I continued to get stones and billiary sludge and still occasionally end up in the ER with pain. I found that I would sort of get to a point where the pain itself would cap. Like my brain would go, “Alright that’s all the pain you can experience as pain.” and then I’d start hallucinating, feeling nauseated, start to pass out, lose feeling in my hands, etc.
Much love to you all, Wil, and I hope this resolves soon. Two weeks ago I went to the ER with stomach pain and left 48 hours later, less a gallbladder. Here’s hoping Anne doesn’t have to deal with this for too much longer.
Sending positive vibes to Anne and you. Take care!
Hope she feels better soon.
That’s scary Wil, seeing someone you love in undiagnosed agony. Healing thoughts for Anne and for you. I hope she’s feeling better soon.
Poor Anne and poor you… What a horrible thing to happen. I hope she feels better soon and I know she will be really appreciating the support you’re giving her. Best wishes to you both.
<3 this little snippet says so much.
Seeing someone you love in pain is so heartbreakingly frustrating. 🙁 I hope there’s a resolve soon – virtual hug from a virtual stranger
They’re good dogs, Wil.
My thoughts go out to you and Anne tonight. :: hugs ::
Oh I hope she feels better soon. Hang in there Wil, you’re doing great at being there when she needs you.
Hope Anne gets better soon!
If she can manage at all with the pain, she should try walking around a bit (especially up and down stairs), as that is supposed to help pass kidney stones…
I just went through a much milder version of this experience, except in reverse. Started having terrible pain, went to the urgent care center. Got told (based on the fact that I couldn’t empty my bladder) that it was probably a UTI, and I concurred because the only time I’ve ever had that symptom was when I had a UTI. Flash forward to the next day, the pain is 10x worse. Go into work (longest day ever), make it to my pcp who is only able to order an x-ray that day. The result doesn’t come in that night, and the pain gets worse, so I reluctantly go to the ER at two in the morning. All I can say is that your description of the feelings you get while waiting and in pain is spot-on.
We found out it was a fibroid in my uterus, which is a kind of tumor that’s extremely likely to be benign. The difference between me and Anne is that my pain was almost completely relieved the second they gave me pain meds. So, a better experience than Anne’s, in that now we know what’s wrong and pain medication actually does things for me.
I wish they would have sent home at least some mild prescription pain reliever though. It’s been a little over 24 hours since I went in and I’m back to being in pain because OTC meds aren’t cutting it.
American healthcare is the best, am I right? /s
Best wishes for you and Anne. Good on you for staying calm. It helps to have someone next to you who isn’t freaking out. When you’re in pain, rational thought processes kinda get suspended a bit, and it’s really easy to panic. I’m willing to bet having you there as a steady presence made a big difference. Good job.
Hope her pain goes away soon.
Lord, I hear about all these folk who get addicted to pain meds, and about the opioid epidemic in America, and I keep thinking “Why couldn’t I get decent pain meds when I needed them?” Totally feel your need for something better than “Take a couple Advil… even though while you were here we gave you a shot of morphine.” Good luck from someone who’s been there.
Thank you. First thing Monday, I’m turning up at my OB’s office and I’m not leaving until we have a pain management plan started.
I hope that Anne feels better soon! I had a kidney stone when I was 20 weeks pregnant with my son, with the same symptoms Anne was having except that I had blood in my urine. They had to admit me to the hospital and put me on a Morphine IV pump and IV fluids. The fluids kept me hydrated which helped me pass the kidney stone two days later. Try to keep her drinking fluids as much as you can so that she passes the stone. Don’t be afraid to call your doctor again if the pain pills don’t get rid of the pain. I am a former RN, and pain is a symptom that something is wrong. Doctors need to remember that, too! I hope that doesn’t happen, by the way. Good luck with everything! <3
There is a quote from the late fantasy writer, Terry Pratchett; ‘You do the job that is in front of you.’ When we care for people out of love or duty we do what needs to be done. I can see how dedicated you are to your wife. From your other posts it’s clear she is both your best friend and playmate. I hope she has a speedy recovery.
So sorry you both are going through this. I hope Anne feels better soon and hope it’s truly as simple (medically) as a stone. I appreciate your perspective about caring for an emergent partner while dealing with personal anxiety/depression. The dogs (and you) have got this.
I hope she feels better soon: she sounds like a tough cookie, so I’m sure she will battle this like the badass she is!
On a side note, I was touched by your words: you can feel all the love you have for her, and how worried you are.
Horrible horrible horrible. That is the initial feeling. Horrible for the person that is trying to endure the pain. Horrible for the person that is trying to be there for the other person (and in a different kind of pain). Realising, that despite humanitys great efforts, this “simple” pain is not one to be thwarted. I feel my thoughts lingering at the thought “if this was a male of the human species, would the pain be brushed aside as quickly?” and “if the doctors and nurses wouldn’t be in such a stress because of cuts and whatnots, would they be more caring and give a bit of a damn?”.
I do not blame the heroic persons that work in health care around the world. They_are_heores!
I blame the rulers, of every major state/country, that think people are measured in revenue.
However, by being there as a fellow human beeing, as a family member, as a husband, you have done more than most peeps. You are there helping, unconditionally, and even though you feel like a small shit, you are a great big shit 😉 (it’s a good thing) and that is all that matters.
I celebrate your great love and wish you and Anne all the best, now and for the future to come.
heart emoji
hugs and whatnots
Oh no, keeping my fingers crossed for you.
It’s awful to watch a loved one suffer. I remember wishing I could switch places…
It’s now been a while since you wrote that post so I hope things are looking up by now. All the best to all of you.
Sending good thoughts your way. Hope she recovers soon!
My heart goes out to you both. To Anne, I hope you feel better soon, and that it is no more than a stone, which I have heard is one of the worst sorts of pain. To you Wil, stay strong my man. As someone whose wife suffered acutely from numerous things towards the end of her life, I am well aware of the difficulty you must be having. Sometimes people overlook the hardships that the caretaker endure. This doesn’t diminish the other person’s illness, just recognizes the fact that it is harder to see someone you love hurting than it is to endure that pain yourself. As a fellow husband, and as fellow passengers on this rock in space, I give you both my love. I hope you see this and draw a little peace from it.
Sending you both my warmest thoughts for a speedy recovery. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone you love in pain.
Don’t know if this will help, but I’ve had many kidney stones. Morphine is generally the only thing that helps with the pain, and generally I’ve needed lithotripsy to break up the stone to pass it. Maybe this procedure might help your wife? I hope she feels much better very soon.
So sorry. I hope things get properly diagnosed and tended to as soon as possible. Hospitals are notorious for dismissing women’s pain, and I’ve heard so many stories like this it makes me furious. (See also the hours it took me to get any pain meds when I landed in the ER with what turned out to be a severe gallbladder attack. They should have been able to diagnose the problem within a single test, but they fucked up the first ultrasound AND the CT scan before a doctor came around to supervise the tech for ultrasound #2. He immediately spotted the issue, gave me a look, and told me to make SURE I wasn’t charged for the extra tests because none of that should have been necessary. The dose of radiation for the CT scan and the misery of having to gulp down all that contrast fluid while in that much pain — I threw it up and had to do it TWICE — was particularly unnecessary. Fun times.)
With the descriptions, I keep thinking of gallbladder attack or diverticular attack. I sincerely hope she is okay very quickly.
Yeah, this is sounding like my husband’s diverticulitis flare ups, before he had the offending portion of his colon removed. It sucks to feel so helpless when your loved one is writhing in pain.
Watching someone you love suffer is the absolute soul-crushing worst. Just make sure you keep up your own meds and needs so you can do your best for her. Stay sharp. Take care.
Keep us updated. Anne is counted amongst one of my favourite people first something she did for me a few years ago. ((gentle hugs)) to you both
I am an RN, excellent description from patient’s loved one’s perspective of what ER waiting is like..1. Thanks for sharing. 2. So sorry you both have had to go through this. 3. 🙏🏽 4. How are you both feeling?
Damn…I hope everything works out.
I have been in a similar situation more than a few times with my wife at the hospital. You describe the helplessness perfectly. I hope she is feeling better and that you can relax and go back to a normal life.
I’m so sorry Anne and you are going through this. Kidney stones are horrible and so is the helplessness you both feel from not being able to do anything about and from the callousness of the medical profession as a whole and from many practitioners. You are in my thoughts and I’m my mind, at least, I’m sending you all the good vibes I have. Love you two!
I hope she gets it figured out!
Also, I love what you’re doing with RFB.
This too shall pass
Best of luck to you both – not knowing sucks.
I’m relieved for Anne’s sake that she’s got someone like you to look after her and worry over her while she’s feeling awful like this. Sending you guys my thoughts!
Prayers, good wishes and karmic swirl sent to you and Anne. There is no other time I have felt as helpless as when I’ve had my spouse or child in pain and been unable to make it end.
My wife had a similar event. Turned out it was her gall bladder. She had to have it removed. She was doubled up in pain very similar to what you are describing. Hope she is well…
All our prayers and best for you and Anne; this sounds like when my husband had his first kidney stone. Not getting something definitive from a series of doctors is definitely frustrating and being polite is “good” but don’t feel bad if you find yourself being firm and chewing a doctor out when they’re vague. Sometimes patients and their loved ones need to push that their symptoms are serious and need to be taken seriously
Well, keep writing. Now I’m worried as hell. I’ll pray this stupid kidney stone passes!
Not a ruptured ovarian cyst right?
Oh God. Thinking of you both. Hope this passes quickly x x
Rooting for you both, hope Anne gets through this soon and feels better. Take care of you both!
As someone who’s had gall stones (apparently same pain as kidney stones) I can empathise with Anne over the pain – feels like someone digging into you … with a spoon! I had to have my gall bladder removed – Hope and pray that the doctors are able to confirm exactly what’s going on and are able to help Anne quickly – that level of pain is miserable and draining BUT you’re doing all the right things and I know she’ll be grateful for them – Hugs (gentle ones) to you both
I’m so sorry to hear this! I know this must be really hard on both of you. I hope she feels better soon. You two are my favorite couple and I’m always rooting for you guys! ❤️
I hope Anne feels better soon. Remember: Take care of yourself as well. You are off more use to her if you do.
hug everything will be ok. I’ve been there a few times, most recently a week ago. so I can imagine how you are feeling. just remember you are doing all the right things. you are a great husband..
Thank you for sharing, I hope that Anne feels better soon. I’ve been on your side too, I just want you to know that all you are doing is making a difference for her. This is what really matters, she has you by her side. Keeping you both in my thoughts and prayers.