Nightmare in the ER

The stone is gone. After much fussing and stewing, at the doctor's instruction, I finally managed to locate the tiny string attached to the end of the stent. Really, how they expect us to do this ourselves is ridiculous. I give a little pull and the pain shoots inside me like lightning. Still, the darn thing is SO uncomfortable, that I grit my teeth and try again. This time the tube loosens and slides out. Eerie feeling, but I am so relieved to be rid of it.

An hour later, I am in agony. Has the second stone come into play? Will I ever be well again? I roll around for awhile, and realize I am not going to be able to overcome this whatever it is. I call the urologist office and they tell me to come in and see the nurse practitioner. Now I am vomiting violently. I cannot even walk. I call my daughter-in-law who agrees to drive me. Together we hobble into the office, my face white, my body doubled over, my pink bucket in hand.

She sends me down for another scan. Stone dust is everywhere. This is not good. I have to find a way to get this stuff out of me! Her suggestion? She will write me a prescription for an anti nausea medication. Go home and take more of the pain meds that are making me throw up. This will pass in a day or so. I cannot imagine feeling this horrible for another day or so. My other option? The ER. They can send me down all diagnosed and with orders for a shot of pain meds that will not make me vomit, plus the anti nausea med. Then I should get some fluids. Once the pain is under control and the vomiting stops, I can go home and wait it out.

It is clear the nurse thinks I should just go home. It is clear I cannot manage that. I opt for the ER. BIG mistake. Andrea and I sit in a chair in a hallway (the waiting room is crammed full) from 3 pm until well after midnight. Fortunately, the nurse has my orders, and she comes out in the hallway to give me the anti nausea med and takes me in the little assessment room for the shot of Torridol. Then I go back to the hallway to sit and sit and sit, waiting for the IV fluids to help with the dehydration. I don't get a room until about 4 am.

All around us there is drama. People come and go, full of business. There is an arguing family wandering the halls, worried about some child who is seriously injured. They are obviously not handling things well. There is the Queen who insists on sitting in the middle of the hallway right in everyone's way, moaning and barking orders at the guy with her. There are at least three other people there with kidney stones, one with a heart condition, and a poor deaf girl in a wheelchair who suffered in silence at the far end of the hall. I can't imagine what was in the waiting room.

From time to time people wander down to the vending machines near us to partake of the crummy snacks and sodas there - the only meal option available. Meanwhile, for at least the first few hours, I sit there violently puking. Far from alluring, I assure you. Mostly I feel sorry for Andrea. I had no intention of dragging her into this mess. Bad enough I have to be here, but she does not deserve this. After all, I am not her Mom. I appreciate her patience and her good nature even in the midst of my throwing up. She is so kind. I know she must be exhausted and the chairs are not comfortable.

When we finally get in the room, she curls up on the end of the bed and falls asleep for a bit while the nurses poke at my port and try to figure out how to hook up. They run that bottle of IV fluid so fast I am amazed I don't drown! I know they need the space. I am urinating what looks like almost pure blood at this point, but at least fluid is exiting. The doctor decides that since I am already under a doctor's care, he can release me with a clear conscience without feeling obligated to do any more testing. Thank goodness. 6 am. We head home. Poor baby. I am sorry to have caused her so much angst.

Let's hope tomorrow is a better day.