Note to self: Do not be annoyed when husband stays in bed sick all day upon returning from a six-day biz trip because he just might end up in the ER with a giant kidney stone and you’ll feel like a real jackass.
I’ll admit it: when it comes to my husband being sick, I often call bullshit. I do the same thing to my kids and don’t come to my senses until I am cleaning puke off the berber. So, when my husband calls me at work saying that he is in pain because he can’t take a dump, I am less than compassionate. “Drink some Pepto.” Then when he calls me again saying that he called my dad over to watch the kids, I am mildly concerned. When I come home to find him pale as a ghost and dry heaving on our front lawn, I am just scared. And remorseful. And hoping the neighbors don’t see him.
Seeing that we just paid off the hospital bills from Aidan mysterious parasite stint which involved puking and shitting at the exact same time for two weeks, we decided to drive 20 minutes to the immediate care rather than rake up another ER bill at the hospital that is literally at the end of our block. Three questions about his balls, two shots in the ass, and one diagnosis later: get to the ER. You have a kidney stone.
He gets doped up and I have to admit, he’s a very witty and charming stoner. The next day, we are at the urologist’s office with fabulous penis décor everywhere you look. The stone is as large as a marble, so they have to put a stick up his dick and break it up with sonic waves. It didn’t work. They try again. That doesn’t work. In the meantime, you can hear the poor guy scream every time he has to go to the bathroom. And because of the stent, orange, medicated pee shoots out like a garden hose. At least it’s easy to spot before sitting down. (Want to see for yourself? Search Herb Dove Takes a Pee on YouTube — will take you back to the days of Beavis and Butthead.)
As all else fails, the doc finally had to go up —cross legs here — and dig the stones out. One by one. (On the upside, they did some complimentary manscaping down there.) The fifth and final time they knock him out is to remove the stent. The doc is visiting us in pre-op, going over the procedure when Tom asks if he can bring the straw that is up his privates home because his buddy wants to see it. I am mortified. The doc is unfazed as explains the government regulations against taking home a TUBE THAT WAS UP YOUR PENIS. So the doc offers to take a money shot of Tom’s… stent. In fact, afterwards, he said he spent more time taking the picture than on the whole procedure.
After seeing the dickstick, I finally handed over my childbirth trump card. It was a nice 10-year run.