I was scared because, despite all the pain I ever felt from the fractures, this was pain was bad but also different. I didn't know what it was or how to make it go away. Lying down only made it worse. Finally I called Mom from the kitchen. She stopped making potato salad and called 911.
The sound of a distant siren was so strange. When I heard sirens in the night I would wonder where they were going, who they were going for and why. It's strange when you know the siren is intended for you.
"Hey, bud!" one of the paramedics said as he entered my bedroom.
"Hey, bud!" one of the paramedics said as he entered my bedroom.
I knew one of the paramedics from working at the hospital. I wasn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries. All I wanted to do was get to the hospital and find out what was going on.
It was the first time I thought I might die.
As they wheeled me outside on the stretcher, the gorgeous warm May afternoon with the puffy white clouds overheard didn't matter. Nor did the grilled hot dogs or the Phillies doubleheader . Nothing mattered. I just wished I felt good again.
They loaded me into the back of the ambulance that was parked in our driveway. From the corner of my eye I saw the neighbors standing on their porches, watching the scene. Everything swirled in my mind. I couldn't focus. It was like I was in another world. No, this wasn't me that was so sick.
I saw more familiar faces in the emergency room. By now I was feeling a little better, kind of like when you go to the dentist and all of a sudden your toothache is gone before he the dentist starts drilling.
After a string of tests they found I was the proud owner of five kidney stones, all camping out in my left kidney. One little bugger, tired of renting my body, was trying to make its way down to the bladder, hence the pain, fever and throwing up.
I never had any problems with my kidneys. In fact, my Uncle Henry would shake his head in amazement down the casino whenever he asked if I needed to use the Men's Room and I always said no.
"I can't get over it. You must have a hose down there. I got to pee all the time!" he remarked.
Of course he was in his eighties. But that was part of the problem- I never drank enough water. I later found out that my O.I. played a hand in these kidney stones as well.
They shot me up with pain meds and sent me home. The plan was to strain my urine, drink lots of water and pass the thing. Oh, and I had to make an appointment to see a Urologist, yet another new doctor friend.
"You'll be seeing a lot of me," Dr. Rose greeted me. He was tall, with a Tom Selleck-like thick mustache.
After three days of juice, Jello,, soup and gallons of water the stone passed. I couldn't wait to eat a hoagie.I heard stories of big, husky guys rolling on the ER floor from a kidney stone. It was enough to make a grown man cry- literally.
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This was my new challenge from then on. A regular visit to see Dr. Rose,plus x-rays to find new stones and check the growth and location of existing one, was my new routine. .Sometimes they would pass and I would immediately feel so much better. Other times Dr. Rose would turn into a "gamer' and blast the stones with a laser.
There was one stone, which felt more like a boulder, which got me admitted to the hospital as an in-patient. This one they felt I could pass with time ( it's more "natural" that way) and a little help from IVs constantly flushing my system with fluids.
That was a lost weekend. I remember on Saturday night, while the rest of the world was out having fun, I was stuck in the hospital, waiting to give birth. My family visited and stared at me, like I was pregnant and ready to go into labor at any moment. In fact the nurses joked that the pain really was like having a baby.
My stone would be whisked down to the Lab for analysis via a test tube. Unlike having a baby, I didn't have the option of keeping little "Rocky" or "Mick Jagger."
After watching Sunday Mass on TV I suddenly passed the troublesome stone. Divine Intervention? I called Mom with the joyful news and planned to go home.
Most of the time Dr. Rose and I let "sleeping stones lie" by just watching them. Having a stone was like always having a sword dangling over your head. You just never knew when it might decide to move on and want out.
A much more pleasant event of the 90s was being Best Man at my little brothers' wedding. It meant a lot to me. I always hated weddings. I could never see myself getting married, and after Jill, I especially thought I was destined to be alone forever.
Weddings also meant dancing. I never danced before, even in my chair. I always felt out of place at weddings. But when Mark asked me I immediately said yes, I would be honored.
I couldn't throw the traditional bachelor party, as was the custom, but he was all right with that. And he would catch-up on his pre-marital partying with his friends.
It was the first time I wore a tuxedo. I was afraid I may look a short, squatty penguin but I looked pretty snazzy in the black and white tux. Mom teased me about "finding a single girl" at the wedding, how damn good I looked.
It was an exciting time of my life. Maybe the most stressful part was thinking of a witty, yet sincere toast at the reception. It was my job to make the champagne toast and I wracked my brain about what to say for weeks prior to the event. ("To be or not to be?" "Fourscore and seven years ago?) The main advice I got was "keep it short."
October was never so beautiful on that wedding day. Crisp, sunny, fall weather with crystal blue skies. The ceremony went off without a hitch. I didn't lose the wedding ring, which was big. My brother and his new wife thanked me after wards, like I had done something special. They were the special ones for asking me to be a part of their special day.
The reception site was a very historic building outside of town. I didn't know there were a few flights of stairs to reach the reception room. I imagined closing my eyes as a couple of guys took my chair up and down the stairs. Or, I could go up on my own, on my backside, one step a ta time. One way or another I couldn't back out. I was giving the big toast.
Luckily the brides' cousin was a college football player at Penn State at the time. Huge, defensive end. 300 pounds, 6'5 in height. He offered to come to my rescue.
Stairs? What stairs? No problem! He merely lifted the entire wheelchair- with me in it- and carried it up the two flights. It's nice to have Superman on your side.
There was red wine at the table. I was never much of a drinker but a glass wouldn't hurt. Then I had champagne with the toast. Speaking of the speech, it went well. I couldn't think of anything clever so I just spoke from the heart and it seemed to go over well.The booze did help me to relax.I was feeling no pain and all the nerves just disappeared.
Mark , a little blitzed himself, found me and clued me in on another wedding tradition: the Groom and his Best Man always do a vodka shot together. Straight up.
It was only a small shot glass. Down the hatch it went.
Moments later the room started spinning. I could've been cited for drunk driving. Toes were nearly crushed. I felt like doing wheelies but my hands were unable to push the chair, let alone steer.
"I think I had enough," I informed Mom. Luckily I remembered that I couldn't walk when I couldn't push. Superman carried the chair back down the steps at the end of the night.
Mom and I quietly celebrated the year 2000. When I was a kid back in the fifties and sixties 2000 seemed a long way away, like it was science fiction, a time we would never reach. I videotaped all the celebrations of the new millennial on TV. Uncle Henry and Aunt Sue, our annual New Year's Eve guests, were gone. I was grateful and blessed that Mom was doing so well after her health scares the last few years.
The new millennial, century, and decade would bring more challenges our way. A new job, the unexpected return of Jill into my life, and an all-too familiar reminder of my brittle bones would be on the horizon.
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