Mary Ellen and the Horrible, Terrible, Very Bad Kidney Stone

I've felt like a bit of a walking wreck for a good part of this spring. I've had a few slammer headaches, a bombastic migraine, a horrid cold, and one of those seven week hack-up-a-lung coughs, which has finally turned into an annoying off and on wheeze-hack that busts loose generally when I'm in the middle of stating something very wise, or loving, or serious, effectively rendering my intended speech weakly pitiful and ridiculous sounding. So, you'd think, according to the rules of life, where things sort of even themselves out - I'd be in excellent health for the next couple of years. Right? Nope.

A few weeks ago I was quietly going about my usual work at the office, minding my own bizzness, designing plush bears or giraffes, or something along those lines, when I suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of nausea roll in, a big nasty wave. Took me by surprise. I wasn't feeling ill in any way, so I ignored it. About two minutes later it returned, not to be denied. Two words flashed by on the big-screen in my brain, as I hastily fled from my desk, through the warehouse, and out the back door, where I really, really needed to let some vomit fly. Kidney! Stone!

The cool outside air hit my clammy skin just enough to briefly calm the impending puke. And that was a good thing, because right where I was intending to spew, was, just my luck, some old dude trying to (illegally) dump his trunk load of trash into the dumpster. He was probably as dismayed to see me as I was to see him.

I caught my breath and tried to relax while I moseyed as casually as possible over to the other side of the building where my car was parked. I tried every way I could to reason with myself: you can’t be sick, you were feeling just fine a half hour ago! Calm down, you’re not going to throw up. Are you?

I opened my car door and crawled into the back seat. There’s no good way to describe the all-over pain a kidney stone comes with, but basically my whole BEING just felt wrong. But laying face down in the backseat was not helping, at any rate, so I heaved myself back into a sitting position and got back out. Very slowly.

A decision has been reached in my brain. Even though I have only been at work for an hour, I absolutely must get home as soon as possible. This is to avoid a potentially painful and embarrassing situation in which I am overcome with the highest level of kidney stone pain; an off the charts screamin’ meemie kind of pain, where one finds the only pain-enduring position that can be had in an office is on the floor on one’s knees, draped over the seat of one’s chair, unable to speak, or move otherwise, except in a whispered garble to one’s ex, on one’s tightly gripped cell phone, to PLEASE come and get me, which one’s ex does, to his great credit. If you think that sounds like I was just describing a memory, I was. The memory of kidney stone #2.

Yes folks, I said #2. Step right up, step right up, to see the lady who can pound out kidney stones one after another, every couple years, like clockwork.

I walk deliberately back to my desk, breathing shallowly, trying not to disturb the stone, at least till I get home. I must email some files to hit a deadline, which involves translating them into a low res format and cc’ing oh, about 8 people, cause that’s how we do where I work. This normally only takes a couple minutes but I could barely get through it, and when I clicked send on the last file, I grabbed a couple plastic bags, and left.

The ride home, usually about a half hour, was the longest trip home I've ever taken. Every crack in the street, every tiny bump - excruciating. The pain causes constant nausea, which I fought off as long as I could, until it was either cough it up while driving, which, because I puke long, loud and hard, was impossible, or pull over immediately. With a yank on the steering wheel I swerved over onto the nearest side street, a very private and lovely cul de sac in Edina, where I sort of rolled out of the car into a bent position, leaned against the car door, and heaved into a bag. Across from me, a nice gentleman was puttering about in his yard. I was careful not to make eye contact, hoping he would not come over to see if I needed any help, as I wasn't in a conversing frame of mind. He didn't. (His lovely home wasn't all that far from some dubious looking apartments on 66th Street, so maybe he just assumed I was a crack-mess or something.) Coffee-puke. Smelled vomit-ty bad, and I had all I could do to regain control of my stomach and get back into the car, bag knotted at the top, and set carefully on the floor.

I had to stop one more time to vomit before I made to my house. Finally. First thing you do is remove much of your clothing. It hurts to have anything touching your skin. I put on a soft, loose nightgown. This being my third kidney stone, I knew the ropes. When my body said the position of least pain was on my hands and knees on the floor, I did it. Fast forward through extreme pain, really unbelievable. In short, it's kind of like a constant mule kick in the kidney, which is also killer back pain. My kidney stone was on the move, so I also had horrible low abdomen pain at the same time. I fell asleep at some point, in a very strange position. Or perhaps I passed out from the pain, I don't really know. I felt a lot better when I woke up. I stayed in bed the remainder of the day, and was just fine from then on. I had no more pain, even when I finally passed it, about a week and a half later. (For those that are unsure - the stone comes out when you pee.)

It's a harrowing experience, no question. Miss Anti-drug (that's me) would gladly have taken pretty much any type of painkiller I could get. On the other hand, I got through it all right without any. Maybe I'll buy myself three big silver belt buckles, to commemorate, like bull riders get. My sisters had a couple of nice suggestions. One said maybe send out birth announcements for the little guy. One said I should have all three stones set into a ring. Yeah, yeah, eeeeveryone's a comedian.

Living Like Lucinda

Lately, lines of poetry had begun to cross her mind. A trail of typed, black letters on white banners, appearing here and there on illogical occasions. While she was trudging upstairs with a basketful of clean laundry to put away. She'd gone to the dances at Chandlerville and played snap-out at Winchester. Poetry she'd read many years ago, and embraced, was coming back to comfort her, like an arm around her shoulder. She made no acknowledgement or wonder of it.

Serving customers at the bar, late at night, her feet hurting. The last-to-leave patrons had nothing to go home to, cigarette breath whistling heavy past the scent of booze in their glasses, grinning yellowed teeth wheezing over the same old bad jokes. A spidery pile of pull-tabs, offering nothing, next to the half empty drinks. She had no reason to feel superior, and didn't. The poem waved, smiling. One time we changed partners, driving home in the moonlight of middle June, and then I found Davis.

A pervasive sadness enveloped her during the day, of a kind that she couldn't shake off. She did not allow her thoughts to stray to Avery. And because of this, when the workday duties became mind-numbingly rote, her mind filled with a headachy emptiness instead.

She fell exhausted into bed at night, curled into the warmth of the poem, living like Lucinda; enjoying, working, raising a family, keeping house, tending the garden, through the dark night. She awoke to the long fingers of the sun on the bedclothes, somehow sated and rested.

The words returned to her, fleeting, but strong, and she remembered walks over the fields and through woods, birdsong, and gathering shells by the river, picking flowers and weeds to arrange in a vase on the table. She recalled what it was like to live loud, shouting and singing, and knew she had not lived enough yet.

Mary Ellen Seidel


Lucinda Matlock
I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the midnight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.

Edgar Lee Masters; Spoon River Anthology

The striking painting shown above is by Edward Hopper, one of my favorite artists.

That's what I thought...