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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thanks for sharing this, Wil. <3
Put her in a hot bath, and have her drink some soda. Worked for me.
I hope Anne feels better very soon, and you find out what the reason is. I know this is a way to process, but thank you for sharing with us. I do believe a burden share is lighten, at least a little bit.
I hope that you and Anne move quickly over this bump in your road. And that her pain diminishes soon. I cannot imagine pain worse than labor that doctors can’t identify. And you were legit-30% is high.
I just went throug a kidney stone experience. What you describe is pretty much what happend to me. Instead of ER my wife took me to urgent care. The x ray showed nothing.
in the end we learned uric acid stones dont show in xrays.
Here is what I learned: the more water you drink, the more painful it is. The more water you drink, the faster the stupid thing will go out. Advild and otc pain killers doesnt cut it, i got vicodin and when it didnt work, percocet. Now, the pain will still be there, but it will be bearable. Laying down is the worst thing you can do, because the only thing you do is focus on the pain, so I walked in my room, in circles, sometimes for hours, until I could pee and the pain would go away for a couple of hours until my urinary track was full again.
If it is indeed a stone, it hurts not because of the stone pushing your inner guts. It hurts because the stone is blocking the flow of liquids you are trying to expell from tour body amd it is accumulating in the kidney amd ureter. The worst pain is when the stone is almost at tthe end of your misery, when it is about to enter the blader. Those are the worst 5 hours of my life so far, I walked for 5 hours drinking water, knowing every sip will make it worse and knowing every sip will get me closer to the sweet bliss of releaf. Also, peeing hurts, not as in burning sensation, more of a pulling your inners because the track is blocked and you can pee anymore sensation.
Al my best to you guys, I could see in my wife’s eyes the impotence you describe, and how exhausted she was by the end of the tenth day (yes ten days) of my ordeal. Hang in there, I hope it is only a kidney stone that she can pass and nothing more serious.
I know Im just a random voice in the internet but if you need to vent Im here to listen.
Thoughts and prayers for you guys. I’ve been in similar situations as where you’re at, just waiting and watching with nothing you can do. It’s terrible and I really hope everything resolves soon. Keep strong. You’re an amazing husband and doing a great job.
I know this sucks. We are all thinking about Anne and hoping for the best. If random strangers in the internet can do anything let us know, we won’t hesitate.
Oh no! I hope they figure out what’s wrong soon! A friend went through that rodeo — kidney stones, appendix, intestinal blockage — and it turned out to be ovarian cysts. (Unfortunately male doctors tend to forget that ladyparts can hurt like hell, too.)
I’ve had this ordeal before with kidney stones, I wish her luck and I hope it is over quickly. I had lithotripsy and it was so much better after that.
I’m thinking of you and Anne
I really hope to see a follow up story that projects your relief that she is better and perhaps has a trace of embarrassment that it wasn’t as bad as you first thought (although I know it most likely is). Anne is in my thoughts, and I really hope you both receive the answers you need.
After spending time in the ER with my wife and she with me on a couple occasions, I truly hope she’s ok and gets better soon. I know how scary, exhausting and fucking frustrating all of this can be. We will keep our fingers crossed! Sending big love to both Anne and you!
Sending Anne healing mojo thoughts. Sending you positive vibes because being the caregiver is a tough job too.
I hope you’re both doing much better since you wrote this. Update us when you can on how she’s doing. We’re a bunch of anxiety ridden worry warts over here, and we want to know she’s ok.
Huge hugs! Sounds like my experience a few years ago. Mine was a kidney stone too, and they couldn’t find it. Sent me back and forth until a doctor finally did an ultrasound. Then they saw the stone – wasn’t calcified and so didnt show up on any of the other tests. My stone was too big and needed surgery. I would have never passed it. If she’s still in pain ask for an ultrasound!
Oh my goodness! I hope Anne feels better soon. Yours and Anne’s posts bring me a lot of joy.
Signed,
Just a random anxious nerd on the internet
I know how that feels. Hang in there Will. Hope Anne gets better soon…
Pain without an obvious cause is always so scary. She’s lucky to have you there for her. I hope she feels better soon.
Have then check for a tumor on her kidney using contrasting dye. My husband presented like this and it turned out to be a slow growing tumor. Don’t let the words scare you. Once they removed it all was all right. It is hard to pick up on a MRI/Cat scan thus the dye. Prayers to you and your wife.
My heart goes out to you, because I know something of what you’re going through. Both of you take care. Seriously, both of you, even though you’re naturally and rightly more worried about her. Kidney stones are truly awful. I haven’t had them myself, but I have an employee who suffers from them chronically despite her best efforts to minimize their recurrence. They don’t have their own telethon or charity run, but you only need to look into the eyes of someone suffering with them to think they should. They’re horrific for their victim. You don’t eliminate the pain, you just manage it. They’re horrific in a different way for their victim’s loved ones. How are you supposed to process the fact that there’s actually very little you can do to help when a person you care about is in so much pain that they turn the color of wallpaper paste and are literally writhing on the floor yet there’s no outward sign of why they’re in distress? What do you do when doctors in the 21st century turn out to know alarmingly little for certain about them and the common medical opinion seems to be “Yeah that pain that is arguably worse than any physical pain humans experience, wait it out. You’ll get better”?
Again both of you take care. I have my proverbial fingers crossed that Anne’s stone passes quickly. Help her every way you can. Lean on family and friends. It does have an end. She will be okay.
🙁 Hang in there. It’s so hard when you’re counting the minutes and feeling helpless. I’ve been inspired by you’re writing but don’t know you but I’m sending you and Anne lots of love from a stranger who’s been through stuff like this before. You’re not alone.
How terrible! I hope things pass quickly, both figuratively and literally. Strangers on the internet are thinking good thoughts for y’all.
It sure sounds like my kidney stone experience! Such pain! Whatever pills they gave me didn’t do a darn thing. Second hospital visit for me I got a stent which took away all of the pain, that was really great!
Mine ended up being too large to pass and had to have it surgically removed. They never did get an image of it which made it also a mystery.
I hope that’s all it is and that it’s gone REALLY soon!
Wow! I wish you and Anne the best.
!!! That’s terrifying! I’m (almost) surprised they sent her home in scary mystery pain. I hope Anne is feeling better.
I had a kidney stone a year ago and it was the most excruciating things I’ve ever felt. I hope she feels better soon!
I hope Anne feels better soon. My husband gets kidney stones frequently, so I have been in your shoes many times. The time I remember the most was when I was eight months pregnant with our now 11 year old. The ER was so busy they didn’t have a room free to put him in and we spent most of the night in the waiting room. We did the Lamaze breathing we had just learned because they couldn’t give him anything for the pain and he begged me to tell them I was in labor so we would at least get a room in the maternity ward. Anyway, I hope Anne feels better soon and you both get some rest. Best wishes.
Thinking of you, Anne, I hope you feel better soon, and the doctors can figure it out! <3
I hope you guys figure out what’s wrong and she feels better. that sounds awful.
I am 34 years old. My first Kidney Stone made it’s appearance when I was 14. Since that time I’ve had 21 more, sometimes several at a time. Speaking from experience, it is awful but if it is a stone, with good pain meds, it will help her push through.
Sorry you’re both going through this!
If you have any questions, experience wise-I’m no MD, I’d be happy to share my POV.
Positive vibes your way.
Personally, I have only experienced kidney stones twice. Both times the event (and the stones) passed after I got pain medication at the ER.
I happen to know a woman who has undergone labor and given birth nine times (or so). When she was older, she also had kidney stones a couple of times.
I asked her which kind of pain was worse. She said that having kidney stones was more painful.
Kidney stones do hurt, and they can be 3mm or smaller which might not show up on a CT scan. It can feel like you’ve been stabbed.
Have her drink lemon water as much as possible to flush it out. The more she drinks, the sooner it’ll be out. Lemonade can help, but isn’t best because the sugar may cause a UTI in a few days. If she is sensitive to high acid food or drinks, try an herbal, caffeine-free tea (caffeine can intensify pain).
Take care!
Yes, this all the way! Keep her hydrated and lots of lemon juice or low-sugar lemonade! The acid can help dissolve the stone.
Parsley tea is also supposed to be good for kidney stones.
Love to you both, Wil.
I hope Anne feels better soon. Sending good thoughts to both of you.
Oh gosh, hope she feels better soon! My husband is a kidney stone factory and it’s horrible seeing him go through it. The first time I went through it with him we were barely married, he came into the bedroom at 2 a.m., said “Audrey, something’s wrong.” then collapsed. I leaped out of bed and rushed him to the hospital. Anyone I know who has them has also said that it is the worst pain they’ve ever been through.
Didn’t they do a CT scan, though? To confirm it’s a stone? They can actually see where it’s at, but perhaps they’re not going to be too worried until she can’t “go”.
they did do one and an mri. they didn’t show anything. might have been too small
I’m so sorry for your distress! I sincerely hope all is well now, and I look forward to reading soon that Anne is hale and hearty again.
(You are so very talented — and empathetic — that even an account of such an excruciating journey is a fine read.)
Sorry for Anne and yourself; I just had a similar ‘kidney stone surprise’ experience, and since I never get sick, it was pretty scary. I hope the pain and stress are over soon. Hang in there 🙂
I hate seeing people in pain. I worked in healthcare for 3 years, and I have too much empathy for that. I’ve seen people go white, and that look on the face, and the shaking, when pain hits that heavy. I hope Anne passes it soon! I want her to be back to feeling no pain. I also understand how much it sucks to hear “this is what we think it is, but we can’t prove it.” This was REALLY good writing, Wil. If I can figure out how to, I’m going to share this post on my facebook wall.
Hang in there, Wil. You’re a superstar spouse.
I’m sorry that you’re both going through this, but I’m glad that the professionals are certain it’s a routine thing that will pass. I hope it does so quickly.
Give my best wishes to Anne and be sure to keep taking some breaks for yourself.
Kidney stones. Such an intense, frightening pain. I do hope the source of her pain is found soon. Ruptured ovarian cysts are just as debilitating, so I hope the doctor was able to rule that out for certain. The bitch part of this is, not much can be done about either one except to wait it out. Ugly for everyone: the patient suffering, and the family that can’t do anything to help. My heart goes out to all of you.
Gentle hugs to you both.
Best wishes to both of you. I hope Anne feels better soon.
May you both be safe, may you both be happy, may you both be healthy, may you both live with ease. Namaste.
I’m so sorry to hear this, it sounds terrifying. I wish I could do more than just send my love and hope to you all over the internet, but sadly, being a stranger to you in England, I can’t 🙁 x <3
While I do not enjoy reading about the pain you both are going through, I deeply enjoy your writing. I has moved me to tears. All will be well, it has to be.
May the pain pass swiftly, Anne and family. Search phrase if stones: extracorporeal shockwave lithotripsy (ESWL)
I can’t imagine how worried and helpless you must feel right now. I am sending loads of healing energy her way to help this resolve as fast as possible. Never underestimate the power of monkey mojo! I am so sorry she is going through this right now. 🙁 (((((HMIC)))))
love & light from Nephy
Ug, what a long week you’re having. ❤ Pain sucks, waiting sucks, and honestly, you handled the head med gap beautifully. You guys are so good for each other.
Heartbreaking. I hope she feels better soon. Make sure you take care of yourself too.
I’m so sorry you have to go through this. Thinking of you both and sending wishes for best possible outcome. Breathe, it really helps.
So hope she feels better soon…
I hope your Anne is feeling better soon. We had a similar experience at the hospital. Interestingly the hospital had a chart on the wall in each room indicating how long each test or medication took to come back/work. It was spot on so we had a good idea of how long we were going to be there. It was a small thing and for some reason it made the waiting easier once we had some idea of how long things took. Positive vibes coming your way.