The View From the Hospital Bed
"You know, they say that this pain is worse than childbirth," said one of the Emergency Med Techs as they were loading me into the ambulance. "Yep, kidney stones are no fun," added his partner. "Well, if I have to give birth to this thing," I said, "you guys get to name it." That was in 2006. After that episode, I thought I was done. Evidently not. You see, one of the keys to avoiding kidney stones is to stay hydrated. On the other hand, one of the keys to avoiding agony behind the wheel of a semi is to not load yourself up on water only to find that you are in a place where there are no truck stops or rest areas. Lately, I chose to not hydrate myself properly, thereby avoiding frantic searches and lost time.
The repercussions of that choice were made manifest just a few days ago, in northern Michigan, at 5AM. What began as a dull yet deep ache on the left side of my lower back felt vaguely familiar. As the pain increased, so too did the dread. I remember this routine. As the pain increased, I was unable to stand. As it grew sharper, I broke out in a sweat. But it wasn't done with me. While the pain raged, there came convulsions and then nausea. Increasing still more, the pain spread around to the lower abdomen, at which point I had to make the phone call. Once again, EMTs were hauling me out of the truck and into an ambulance. Even though the temperature was in the 40s, they couldn't get the tape around the I.V. to stick to my skin because of the pain-induced sweat. But at least the gentlemen were courteous and in good humor.
"You missed a bump," I moaned to the driver on the way to hospital.
"Want me to go back and get it?" he asked.
"Next time."
"Mr. Carter, try to take deeper breaths. Breathe slower."
"Ever heard of Ricochet?" I asked between moans. I was trying to distract myself.
"Try to breathe slower."
"Only if you'll check out Ricochet."
"Is that a musical group?"
"Oh hell."
Once in the ER, they asked if I would like to try and move myself from the gurney to the bed. I tried, but I couldn't stop shaking and so required assistance. By that point, they could have hired me out to shake cans of paint at Home Depot. "Name?" they asked. "David Carter," I said, adding, "my Dad's name is Jimmy." A brief chuckle and then someone said, "At least his name isn't Obama." Then they started removing my clothing. "I didn't say my name was Clinton!" I protested. "No sir, we have to get you into a hospital gown." Oh, that's right. While one person took my vital statistics, someone else took my insurance information. Another person got me registered onto their guest list, I suppose, while still another walked in to take blood. Next came the doctor to press down on places that were already hurting. I think he was trying to see how high I could sing. We established that on a scale of 1 to 10, my pain was at 12, in the key of C. Let the morphine commence.
"Whoa!" I gasped,…"am I okay?" …because while I lay still, my heartbeat suddenly seemed to race on its own accord. How could that be? The nurse looked at the little monitors and said that it was the morphine. The room began spinning first one direction, then the next. My eyelids grew heavy, but it wasn't a pleasant sort of sedation. The pain was still there, only I wasn't reacting to it as much. Then, it began to fade into the background, only to return in a matter of minutes. More medication was administered. We had to repeat that process another time or two before we finally got things under control.
They must have given enough morphine to knock out a horse before a nice lady showed up with a wheel chair and told me it was time for a CAT scan. "Can I take my hat?" I mumbled. I wouldn't leave the truck without my military hat, you see. My grandfather was the same way. "Sure," she said. So my hospital gown, my hat, and I were loaded onto the wheel chair for a trip down the hall. I don't know why, but she had a difficult time steering that wheel chair. We were making a left turn out of ER when 'bump!' we hit the left doorway. "Sorry about that," she said, and off we went toward the scanning room when 'bump!" we hit another doorway. "Oh I'm so sorr…" "No problem," I said, "you should have seen the ambulance driver." After the scan was complete, Mrs. MaGoo began steering me back to ER. She was so sweet and kind, and so imminently caring, and she drove like Ray Charles. 'Wham!' Another doorway. She backed up from that and 'Crunch!' there went a garbage can. It was like a child trying to steer a remote controlled car. A few more bumps and reversals later, we were back in my room.
Back in the bed, I wasn't asleep. At least I don't think I was. But I couldn't keep my eyes open either. It was purgatory. "Mr. Carter?" I tried to focus on the direction of the voice, but my eyes just kept rolling around, refusing to take commands or focus on anything. The doctor hovered right over me. He said something about the stone being 3 millimeters, and then his words ran together. "You'll have to talk slower," I slurred, "'cause I … can't … listen … fast." He started slow and then sped up again. I remember him saying that he was in no hurry to release me, and then I finally was asleep. The pain woke me up. I don't know how long I had been there, but I pressed the little buzzer next to my hand and a nurse appeared to administer more relief. It was late afternoon when the doc asked if I felt good enough to be released. Despite the fluids they had pumped into me, the stone had evidently not passed yet. I didn't see why I shouldn't be released, but the doctor suggested I try some food first. Half a bite of jello later, when nausea overcame me, we all decided I should stay the night.
Later that night, they wheeled me into my very own private room, complete with TV, a telephone, and a bed with controls that I could actually reach. My nurse would be in shortly, I was told. A minute later, a nurse walked by my next door neighbor's room and asked, "How are you doing, sir?" Bad move. She was his captive audience, as was I, for the next 45 minutes while he recounted his life's story. He was very loud. I wondered if perhaps that was my nurse he was detaining, and I grew agitated. I needed to make some phone calls, needed to learn the routine for using the restroom in there, and needed something for the pain that was returning, and he wouldn't stop talking to her. "I was the hardest working guy they had there," he said. "For every hour they worked, I worked nine hours." I muttered, "Yes, and for every word they said, you said nine paragraphs." It grew quiet in his room after that. The nurse left, but she evidently wasn't assigned to my room. Then another nurse walked by his room and started to look in when I said, "Don't do it!" But it was too late. "How are you, sir?" and off to the races he went. I nicknamed him "9 to 1."
Finally, my nurse, a tall and friendly gentleman came in. He was required, he told me, to ask a series of questions that the government told him to ask. After the obligatory personal and family medical history, he asked if I learn new information best by reading, or verbally, or being shown? The government made him ask me that. He then asked if I had a medical partner that would be going through this hospital experience with me. He knew I was from out of state, but the government required him to ask me these questions. Of course, I said that no, I didn't have anyone there. If I did have a medical partner, he continued, what could be done to help them understand my situation? "Mail them the kidney stone," I answered. This concluded the government's questions.
Thereafter followed one of the longest nights ever. The staff were very courteous. They came into my room a few times to check my vitals. Someone came in to do some more blood work, to monitor my kidney function they explained. The electronic gizmo that controlled the flow from the I.V. to my veins sounded like the return carriage of an old IBM typewriter. It took about 6 hours to get from midnight to 2:30 in the morning. At 3AM, ol' 9 to 1 next door was still talking at anyone with the gumption to ask how he was doing. He has a revolving door policy. Finally, around 3:30, I drifted to sleep. At 6AM, people came in to check my signs again, so I figured I was up for the duration.
As the day progressed, I was able to eat and keep down a popsicle, some crackers, and half a tuna salad sandwich. By afternoon, me and my I.V. tree were touring the hallway to see if I could get about without significant discomfort. Odd how such a short walk can wear one out, but I took a nice nap once back in the room. By late afternoon, the staff at the hospital had been kind enough to go to the pharmacy and fetch my prescriptions for me, along with some juice and crackers. Once I had my walking papers, the nurse who had tended to me during the day actually gave me a ride back to my truck. These people were so incredibly polite and unfailingly professional. It's a small town, and the people here treat each other like neighbors.
Meanwhile, my prescriptions and I are convalescing in the truck, resting and watching Bugs Bunny cartoons. As Bugs tries to escape the evil doctor's castle, he shakes the doc's hand and says, "Don't think it hasn't been a little slice of heaven. Because it hasn't." On the contrary, this little hospital, and the people who work there, do their utmost to make the best of myriad bad situations every day. My hat is off to them, and all those who work in the medical field and deal with people when they are at their worst. From 9 to 1's life story, to my pain-induced one-liners, these people were absolutely top notch. All the same, I think I'll stay hydrated next time.
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Comments :
Jun '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Dave: My condolences. I (knock on wood) have not been afflicted with kidney stones, but have a very close friend who's gone through the drill several times. A few years ago, I asked him what it felt like. I'll never forget his vivid response [sorry, no CoC violation intended]: "It feels just like peeing out a brick."
Enough said. I get the picture and don't want the experience.
Get well soon.
May '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
For future reference, the key to staying both hydrated and productive when your office is a truck (an F-150 in my case) is keeping an empty 24 oz. diet Pepsi bottle behind the seat.
Get well, big guy.
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Thanks for the well wishes and advice. I certainly can come up with better ways to spend my days. Did I mention that my neighbor worked nine hours to everyone else's one hour?
May '11
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Unfortunately, Dave, hydration doesn't have much to do with kidney stones. Your body produced that kidney stone over many months or years and it broke loose to create pain under the rules of Murphy's Law which transcends all other laws. "
"You'll have to talk slower," I slurred, "cause I...can't...listen...fast."
The best thing I read today, and in many days, and I read a lot.
Edited on Sep 29, 2011 at 8:17pmRe: The View From the Hospital Bed
Dave, kidney stones are undeniably the worst. The pain is so intense that the initial concern that you might die rapidly gives way to the dreadful realization that you might not. Opioids and IV hydration usually do the trick.
My Dad's one and only kidney stone elected to present itself while he was helping me move to California from Florida in 1987. Dad felt each and every bump in the pavement in my trusty little Mazda RX-7. We never did get to see any shows during our stopover in Las Vegas.
Sounds like the team at the local hospital took good care of you.
Prayers are on the way. I am glad you are on the mend.
Sep '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Dave,
I knew someone who suffered from chronic kidney stones and the pain is "blindingly intense". I'm impressed that you're able to write about it with such a light touch. Get well, my friend.
Sep '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Ditto with the prayers. I don't know where in Michigan you are convalescing, but if there's anything I can do for you from here in Grand Rapids let me know.
Mar '11
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Kidney stones are one of those things that prove we haven't come nearly as far as we thought we have. When I was a kid, I was told that kidney stones would soon be a thing of the past... get one, go to the hospital, and a device would direct a sonic blast that would pulverize it and you'd just pee out the dust. 30 years later, people like Dave are still staying in the hospital days at a time, and the treatment is still "here's some drugs, now wait it out".
Jul '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Ouch! Been there, done that, got the little strainer screen. I'm so sorry to hear it, Mr. Carter, and hope you're on the mend (and the road) soon.
Dec '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
They give you neighbors like that to encourage turnover.
I thought there was some fancy sonic jack-hammer technology to break up the unwelcome intruder. Is that an urban myth or just something not available everywhere?
As a cancer surviving friend says, "Recovering from sickness makes you appreciate how fantastic normal feels!" Hope you feel normal soon, Dave.
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
George Savage: Dave, kidney stones are undeniably the worst. The pain is so intense that the initial concern that you might die rapidly gives way to the dreadful realization that you might not. Opioids and IV hydration usually do the trick.
My Dad's one and only kidney stone elected to present itself while he was helping me move to California from Florida in 1987. Dad felt each and every bump in the pavement in my trusty little Mazda RX-7. We never did get to see any shows during our stopover in Las Vegas.
Sounds like the team at the local hospital took good care of you.
Prayers are on the way. I am glad you are on the mend. · Sep 29 at 8:11pm
George, what's an Opioid? I could make a joke about the red headed kid on Andy Griffith, but,..nah. Also, Southern Pessimist in the comment above yours seems rather pessimistic about hydration preventing these things. Am I guzzling water for naught here? I also hear that cranberry juice helps. Please send your fee to my truck. And many thanks for the prayers.
Jun '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
I had a kidney stone several years ago, and your description of the ambulance ride was like going back there in a time machine. But if I had a time machine, that isn't the day I'd pick. I wanted to just die and get it over with. Just like you, they gave me some drug that slowed down time, and it just felt so nice. You don't really learn anything from having a kidney stone, but I learned how opioid drugs work, and I decided I liked them way too much. Way too much. That's dangerous stuff, but so necessary sometimes. They gave me a screen funnel to pee into over the toilet that night, but I forgot to use it, and my "precious" stone was lost to history.
Feb '11
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Hydration definitely helps prevent new stones from forming. (Trust me! I'm a doctor.) I'm so glad you're feeling better. I had a kidney stone about 10 years ago and it's not a forgettable experience. It sounds like you need to keep a water bottle at your elbow during all waking hours and figure out some kind of emergency urinal plan as suggested by Scott Reusser. (I always thought truck drivers and jet pilots had condom catheters connected to leg bags. Shows you what I know.)
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Sticks and stones, etoiledunord, sticks and stones...
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
I hadn't thought of that... hmmmmmmm
May '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Dave, how did you do that? You wrote about a horrifically painful experience and had me laughing out loud. Not fair.
I'm praying you're feeling better very soon!
Aug '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Fighter Pilots maybe, but we definitely had a jerry can in the B-52 - by the equipment racks downstairs where it was kept nice and warm - right next to where the Instructor Radar Navigator would strap in for traffic pattern work.
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Hey, Dave, get well soon, or as the Turks say—very appropriately in this case—“may it pass.”
Mar '11
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
Dave Carter
I hadn't thought of that... hmmmmmmm · Sep 29 at 8:35pm
Military aviators call them piddle packs. Maybe there's a similar product for the civilian market?
Jun '10
Re: The View From the Hospital Bed
I also get kidney stones. When I had the last one, all I said to the nurse in admitting was renal colic, and I was whisked right in. That one passed out within an hour of my being admitted. The one before it took the weekend to come out, during which time I was blessed with a roommate that would not shut up. He kept asking me questions, even though I kept ignoring them. As I understand recoil an Uzi pulls up and to the right, and believe me, Dave, I'm still lookin'.