Today started out like any other normal day. I actually got up and was feeling a little fancy, so I decided I would wear a dress to work. Me. A dress.
So I got in the shower a little earlier to shave my legs, got out, and put on my fancy dress. It’s really pretty. Cocktail length. Off white, with a black flower pattern, wide straps, and a sweetheart neckline. I bought it for my BFF’s wedding a couple of weeks ago, and it looks really cute on me. I’ve only worn it once, and I wanted to get some more mileage on it before the cooler weather comes (if it ever comes, because Manischewitz, it is hot outside). So I got ready, put on my pretty dress, and off to work I went.
I got to work my standard 7 minutes late, got my workstation up and running, ate some breakfast, and then began my morning routine. E-mail, tasks from e-mail, open document management system, open browser, open Talk, open Trillian. Check Facebook, Google Reader, the Drudge Report, Twitter, and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Do some work. A little before 9am my workmate arrives, so I chat with her for a few minutes before settling back in to my morning tasks. This is basically how every morning goes. Day in, day out. It’s nice to know what’s coming next.
Today, however, my (fancy, amazing, gorgeous, brand new awesome) cell phone rang at 9 on the dot. It was the Mister. This was not out of the ordinary, as he usually things of something he forgot to tell me before I left for work. So I answered the phone. “I need you to come home,” he said. Um, what? It’s 9am. I’ve been at work for only an hour. “I’m having back and abdominal pains like I’ve never felt before.” “Do you need to go to the hospital?” “Yes.”
This, my friends, was serious.
The Mister is a pretty stoic guy. He is a man’s man. Tough, grizzled, hardened. He deals with pain very well and can generally power through it. So for him to tell me that his pain was bad enough to warrant a trip to the hospital? This was bad. So I told my boss that I needed to go and why, sent an e-mail to the office manager, and bolted for the parking deck. NASCAR had nothing on me today. I broke no less than 20 traffic laws, I’m sure. Speeding, super-speeding, changing lanes without signaling, following too closely, using the HOV lane improperly, you name it, I did it. I got to my exit in record time. As I pulled off the interstate, my phone rang again. It was the Mister again calling to inform me that he had called 911 to send an ambulance out to the house.
Oh. My. Lord.
An ambulance?! Now I was worried. I told him to hang on, I’d be there in less than 10 minutes. The ambulance and fire truck were in front of the house when I arrived. I waded through the sea of smoking hot EMTs into my house, where my husband was face-down on the couch attached to various machines to monitor his vital signs. One EMT told me that they were about to take him down through the garage and load him up onto a stretcher, so I ran upstairs to change clothes (hey, if I have to sit at the hospital for God knows how long, I’m at least going to be comfortable) and give the dogs some more water since they had knocked theirs over with all the commotion going on in the house. Away we went to the hospital, which luckily is only less than 5 miles from our house, with me following the ambulance. The ambulance wasn’t in a huge hurry, so I took that as a good sign that the Mister wasn’t on his deathbed.
When we arrived at the hospital, I was able to get a good look at the Mister for the first time since all this started. And he was definitely in pain. His gorgeous face was contorted with pain, he couldn’t straighten his legs, and his hands were shaking. They rolled him into the emergency room and straight back into a room. The EMT gave me the rundown on what was going on and what would happen. I asked him what he thought it was. He said judging by what the Mister said he was feeling, it was more than likely a kidney stone. And he was right.
Poor Mister. They say that passing a kidney stone is on par with birthing a child. I wouldn’t know, because I got an epidural and got cut open so I was numb from the sternum down for a good 14 hours. But judging from the way the Mister was acting, I doubt I will attempt natural childbirth on purpose. He had no patience for the EMT, for the doctor, for the triage nurse. He wanted pain medication and he wanted it NOW. I felt so bad for him as he was writhing on the hospital bed, IV in place and oxygen line running. They finally gave him some Dilaudid for his pain and he started to calm down. He went for a CT scan eventually, and the doctor came back and told him that the stone had passed from the kidney and into the bladder, and now he just had to pee it out. They gave him a couple of sifters to pee into to catch the stone. Gross. Then he has to send it to a urologist. Ew. Not a job I would want.
All told, we were out of there in under three hours. I’m actually a little glad that he called an ambulance, because if we had just walked in the emergency room we would have likely had to wait in the waiting room. Coming in on a stretcher seems to get you to the back faster. But all’s well that ends well, and he seems to be back to normal. Well, as normal as he gets.
I have come to the conclusion that narcotics and my husband are a hilarious combination. When he had a colonoscopy a few weeks ago, he was HILARIOUS coming out of the anesthesia. And today, after he got the good drugs coursing through his veins?
He asked for an epidural.
My husband, ladies and gentlemen. And I wasted a cute dress on an hour’s worth of work.
And days like today make me thankful for having a very understanding employer, easy access to medical care, the ability to pay for said medical care, and really cute EMTs.