You’ve Got To Be Kidneying Me (014)

I am pleased to inform you that a reader recently praised Write Before Thirty, calling it “totally raw and humble.” Drawing attention to this compliment surely negates it, but I find it to be an appropriate description of today’s entry. You see, this blog is about to get more raw (rawer?) than it has ever been as I transcribe one of the most humbling experiences of my life.

Reader discretion advised.

According to my original schedule, I am supposed to have 90 pages of my PT script completed by this evening. That’s not going to happen. There are many factors that can get in the way of a writer reaching his deadline. Writer’s block is a big reason, but a funk was not my problem this week. The need to take on a paid, non-writing job, is another factor, but that wasn’t the issue either. During the past week my writing has taken a backseat to my backseat. Yes, there’s a reason I am writing this while lying down in bed and that reason is not laziness. Ok fine, there are two reasons why I am writing this from bed and one of those reasons is not laziness.

Confused? Let me start from the beginning. I went to bed on Monday night feeling pretty grand. I had a perfectly adequate writing day and was looking forward to waking up early for another productive morning. Well, the night had a different set of plans. I dreamt that I was fighting in a war and some guy that I formerly suspected of having a thing for my girlfriend had poisoned me. The poison was taking effect and my organs were failing. It was painful. When I woke up from the dream, the pain did not go away. I was fevering and I was aching all over, especially in my lower back. Of course, I immediately assumed that I had H1N1, but after speaking with my girlfriend’s dad (who happens to have an MD at the end of his name) I decided it was just a virus. Look, I’m not exactly the toughest cookie. You probably know that because I say things like “toughest cookie.” Well, I tried to get in front of the computer and do some work but it wasn’t happening. When I get sick, I don’t write. I whine and complain and I do a lot of moaning. So that is what I did on Tuesday.

Hoping that the virus would be a 24hr bug, I still planned to get a good deal of work accomplished when I woke up on Wednesday. There are a couple of things you never want to see when you wake up in the morning. A severed horse head tucked under the sheets is one of those things. The other is blood in your urine. Have you ever had the pleasure of seeing blood in your urine? This was my first time, but there is certainly something in the human body that instinctively sounds an alarm when it sees something very wrong. For instance, when I broke and dislocated my left index finger, I immediately knew that my finger was not meant to rest at a 90-degree angle in that direction, so my instincts took over and forced my finger back into the socket. Well, when I saw blood where blood was not supposed to be, I instinctively went back to bed and pretended it never happened. I later asked my girlfriend if it would "hypothetically" be weird if I were "hypothetically" pissing blood. Well, she instinctively called Dr. Dad and Dr. Dad instinctively told me to get my ass to the ER.

I spent 8 hours in the ER on Wednesday. 3 hours in the morning to get a kidney infection diagnosis from a lousy doctor, then 5 hours in the evening to get the same diagnosis from a better doctor, this time with a CAT scan. Last year I was diagnosed with hyperparathyroidism, a benign tumor on one of my parathyroid glands, resulting in elevated calcium levels. This calcium can accumulate in the kidneys and cause stones. I had the diseased parathyroid removed but dormant kidney stones could plausibly still be moving around and causing a blockage. A CAT scan would show if I had stones.

Along with death by drowning and clowns, kidney stones is one of my greatest fears. Multiple people I know have had kidney stones and their accounts couldn’t have been more chilling. I was told, though I’m pretty sure the guy couldn’t prove it, that passing a kidney stone is more painful than giving birth. Another friend put it, in all seriousness, “You know, I’ve never been shot, but I can’t imagine it would hurt any worse.” The CAT scan showed that I did not have kidney stones. Disaster avoided. I was given antibiotics and told to follow up with an urologist.

The ER recommended a urologist but he wasn’t covered under my insurance, so I went to the best place to get a recommendation… the young producer. For some reason the young producer is able to recommend any kind of medical specialist or specialized lawyer in the LA area at the drop of a hat. It took less than three seconds for the young producer to recommend a good urologist. At the time I was still in so much discomfort that I didn’t laugh when I heard the doctor's name, which happened to be a synonym for testicle.

I sweated through two sets of sheets the night before going to see Dr. Testes. I’m pretty sure the sweats had to do with my fever breaking, but it may have also had something to do with dreading my visit to the urologist. I had heard some stories involving scopes and other contraptions and I wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Dr. Testes works out of a very large urology practice in an affluent part of town. The staff of receptionists, crammed side by side in their wood paneled fortress, answering phones and passing out paperwork was like a modern day version of the crowded but efficient switchboard operator rooms of the early days of telephones. I don’t know why, but I found this strangely comforting. I was also put at ease by no less than nine diplomas on the wall of Dr. Testes’ office. If you have five or more diplomas on your wall, I will trust whatever the hell you tell me. Dr. Testes and I were starting off on the right foot.

Dr. Testes said we would start with a urine sample. If I were still pissing blood he’d have to take a look at my bladder. That sounded like a fine idea, until he explained that he would have to take a look at my bladder through the tip of my willy. Fortunately, I was no longer pissing blood. Unfortunately, the exam did not end there. Certain moments in life you are sure to remember forever. For me, those include my first kiss, the day I met the love of my life, and then this past Thursday, the day I lost my anal virginity. It all happened so fast. Dr. Testes warmed me up with a little “head to the left and cough” foreplay before asking me to bend over the exam table. I only caught a glimpse of the tube of lubrication before I realized Dr. Testes was massaging my prostate. He was in and out in less than ten seconds. I smiled sheepishly as Dr. Testes handed me a couple of tissues and walked to the door. The following awkward exchange ensued:

Me: Are you leaving?
Dr. Testes: The technician will be right in to do an ultrasound of your kidneys and rectum.
Me: Oh. I see
Dr. Testes: You can pull up your pants now.
Me: I have to pee.
Dr. Testes: Use the small sink
Me: Seriously?
Dr. Testes: Yes.
Me: Thank you.
Dr. Testes: It's a urology office. That's why it's there.

I urinated in a sink for the first time since college. The technician then arrived, wheeling in the ultrasound machine. I was instructed to drop my trousers, lie down on the table, and face the wall in the fetal position. We made the prerequisite small talk before the technician unveiled his apparatus. I think his apparatus is best describes as looking like a large electric toothbrush.

The procedure took significantly longer than the finger technique. I assume it is necessary to get images from a number of different angles because there was a good deal of navigation going on. My memory of the event is cloudy, but I did discover my uncontrollable, pain-induced swear word. Hopefully the technician thought I was Australian and therefore using it as a term of endearment. When it was over, the technician politely cleaned me up and asked me to sit up so he could do an ultrasound of my kidneys. This was a much more relaxing experience and I wondered why we didn’t start there. As I pulled up my pants, I asked the technician if it was customary to tip. He laughed and went along his way. Typical.

I sat down with Dr. Testes and my girlfriend to receive the proper diagnosis: Prostatitis. That means I have a prostate infection. Such a tiny organ has been causing all these problems and preventing me from writing. Dr. Testes assured me that this type of thing is rather common, almost like getting a sinus infection. The treatment is thirty days of antibiotics with no sex for at least a week. I guess my girlfriend looked disappointed when he said this, so he reassured her, “Dear, you can do whatever you want.” I can’t believe he said that. You’d think he’d have my back after he... had my back. Oh, I also need to be on Flomax for a couple of weeks and I should probably be sitting on a donut. That’s right, a butt pillow, like the ones old people use when they get hemorrhoids. I don’t even know where to buy something like that. Maybe I can just use my girlfriend’s neck pillow.

People have always been telling me that I act older than my age. I guess this week I proved them right. A friend of mine (who has been through some similar medical experiences) lamented, “We’re the gazelles at the back of the pack.” I didn’t understand at first, but he went on to explain that we are genetically inferior and therefore the lions have an easier time snatching us up and devouring us. Encouraging.

Raw and humble or just plain embarrassing? I’m not really sure, but it has played at least a small factor in my struggle to reach my writing goals, so I am compelled to blog about it. Let’s hope that the antibiotics kick in and I’m back to full days of writing in the weeks to come. In the meantime, I'll be drinking plenty of water, watching movies, and complaining about painful urination.