Memoir: The Kidney Stone

(The following was published in The Globe and Mail, March, 1998, all rights reserved.)

A passing strange experience

In which I learn that morphine is nice, and so is Jell-O, and so are the nurses who accord us all our dignity, even a middle-aged guy with a kidney stone that won't quit.

Thursday, March 5, 1998

HAD Wordsworth had kidney stones, his legacy would surely have included an Ode: Intimations of Mortality . For there is nothing like that assault on the "gentles" to make a man realize he is passing. Not passing strange, or passing 55 or passing a gravel pit, but just plain passing.

Mine hits me like an unidentified truck of a Tuesday morn. When I have to crawl back to my bed I reckon I should phone in, cancel my meetings, pass on the downtown luncheon and sleep it off. That works. I go through the rest of the week with daily spasms that pass with a Tylenol or three.

Now, I don't know what I've got. I note that I haven't had -- how can I put this delicately? -- a good bowel movement for four days. So I put one and two together and conclude: my colon looks like my sofa and it's about to explode.

By Sunday, the pain is unbearable. Nothing dispels it. My midriff seems a swirling fire. No position is comfortable. Oddly, I feel the least discomfort when I lie on the area afflicted. I can't place the pain precisely. It's just -- inside. About 3 a.m. I give in, call a cab and check in at the emergency room of my friendly neighbourhood Foothills Hospital.

Within 15 minutes, I'm hustled into a row of cubicles and deposited on a bed. After quick questioning by two or three nurses, covering the same ground -- can I keep my story straight? -- I'm eventually introduced to the fast, fast, fast relief of morphine. A very nice drug. It's in a pouch supplementing the saline solution in my IV. The pain dissolves and I sleep. I like morphine.

In the morning, the doctor on duty opines that I have a kidney stone. To confirm, he runs me through the full-gut CAT scan. "Usually these things work themselves out on their own. Let's hope so." He sends me home with a vial of Tylenol 3s. "If these don't do it, come back to us. Drink lots of fluids."

"Can I have a flask of morphine to go?"

(Why should I take up valuable emergency room space when I don't have to? I'm a conscientious citizen. Also, you should know this: I come from solid Russian peasant stock who wouldn't be caught dead going to a hospital. Take a swig and soldier on, I say.)

"I'm afraid not, sir."

Monday, I go to work and realize immediately I should have stayed in bed. By mid-afternoon, the pain leaves those Tylenol 3s licking dust. I call a cab back to the hospital. When I get there, the pain has subsided. For three hours I watch the passing scene. Then the pain returns. Huge. I'm ushered back to the cubicles, interviewed all over again by the day cast and finally, finally, given that little morphine spike to my IV.

The doctor du jour is sure it's a kidney stone. The next morning, this is confirmed by another full-gut CAT scan.

"We have two choices. We could admit you here for a few days and see if it works itself out. Or we could send you down to the Rocky View."

"Why there?"

"They have the urologists."

Oh. That's the modern hospital scene. A huge hospital with all the latest, with full research activity, attached to the friendly neighbourhood university, but all the urologists hang out somewhere else? What does this hospital handle and could I swap for that?

I don't relish giving up the IV to cross town, so we agree I'll stay at the Foothills. For three days I'm constantly served by warm, caring nurses and staff who are obviously overworked. Round the clock, I doze and drift. I haven't the mental focus to turn on the telly. For three days I'm fed lots of fluids, but nothing more solid than Jell-O. Three flavours a day. I'm reminded that I like Jell-O. Rich flavours, animated wigglies, deep colour. Goes particularly well with morphine.

I faithfully urinate through a strainer, hoping to trap the vile grit that's causing my pain. "There's rocks in that thar gold," I say to myself, but the mine yields not a nugget.

In the middle of the night -- probably around 7 p.m. -- I'm awakened by a bright-eyed young man sitting on my bed. The Angel of Death, I logically assume.

"I'm John Dushinski. Urologist at Rocky View. I've checked your records. You have a little kidney stone stuck in your urethra."

I'm slowly focusing on him.

"It should have come out by now. If it hasn't already, it probably won't. Here's what we'll do. We'll take you by ambulance tomorrow noon to the Rocky View. Then when I have a chance in the OR, I'll remove your stone. Here's the operation. We run a small telescope into your penis and up into the bladder. It will spot where the stone is. If it's small, we'll just grab it and pull it out for analysis. If it's big, we'll shatter it by laser and get all the pieces out. You'll be unconscious for the whole operation. You won't feel a thing. It'll take maybe half an hour. An hour later, you can go home if you want. And let's hope you don't get them again. Any questions?"

No questions. I thank him.

My first ambulance trip ever whisks me off to Urologists "R" Us. In the next bed, a geezer sleeps the long afternoon away, sawing happily, while I lie under the burgeoning pain, trying not to think about the operation.

The geezer awakens and starts calling out orders.

"Do you know where you are, dear?" the nurse asks him, warmly.

"Of course. I'm on a cruise."

"No, you're in the hospital. We'll be operating on you very soon. No more back pain."

"Isn't this a ship?"

"No, it's a hospital. Have you ever been on a cruise?"

"No. Is the boat over there?"

Another time he cries out, "I only want to show some compassion."

I look for a conspiratorial smile from the nurse as she passes, but there is none. The geezer has his dignity. Anyway, from where she sits, he and I are in the same boat in the same fog at the same point of our journey. There's no superiority here.

Finally, at about 6:30, I'm wheeled into the OR. I'm impressed at the space and the impressive array of equipment. No wonder all the urologists hang out here. That's sparkling expensive stuff, whatever it is. I wonder if David Cronenberg knows about this.

A thirtyish man leans over me: "Hi, I'm Dr. Ken. I'll be your anesthetist today." Everyone around is young and perky. I wonder why my operation will be administered by a bunch of cute cheerleaders. Do they alternate shifts between here and the Keg?

All these cute little girls' eyes are on me as I shift awkwardly from my wheely to the operating table. "You can keep your blankets on you," my surgeon suggests.

Suddenly, I catch myself praying. I haven't prayed for years. But now, without thinking, in the pressure of the moment, my mortal vulnerability ineluctable, I am praying, in silent but total fervour.

"Oh, please, God, don't let them start laughing at my penis until I'm unconscious."

"Here's some oxygen."

"It smells like rubber."

"You can wake up now. It's over. You're okay. We got it."

My blankets are in place. There is a God.

The geezer is being wheeled in as I out. "No oxygen! I hate oxygen!" But his salvation proceeds, willy-nilly.