Okay. Me & Brett spent Wednesday the 23rd in the emergency room for about 5 hours.
No. It wasn’t me, this time. Seriously.
HE woke up at 6 feeling nauseous, and by 8, he was sweating, doubled over in pain, and hadn’t stopped vomiting…at which point (with nightmares of my experiences of such pains screaming in my head) I’m going, “YOU, mister, are going to the Emergency Room.”
Thank god, thank god, just a kidney stone.
I know, I know…there’s no such thing as “just” a kidney stone (the ER doc said that the pain’s worse than childbirth), but considering every scenario that had been in my head up until that point, something that only takes a bit of time and lots of water to fix is a massive relief.
He’s still in a lot of pain, he’s been drinking fluids constantly…
…and why IS it that some people among our friends and family can’t resist telling him about all the nightmares that could go wrong? Bad enough the nurse-cousin at his aunt’s that wouldn’t stop expressing disbelief that they’d let Brett out of the hospital (like, lady, I trust our Columbus hospital ER folks more than your WV idiots who couldn’t diagnose your husband correctly for four years). But worse, a couple married friends who normally don’t call us, who called tonight just to regale me for 15 minutes with all the pain & horror & infection that the male-half has gone through with his three stones…
…at which point, Brett, seeing my face get more & more pissed off, rescued me by calling out “dinner’s ready” just to get these people off the phone.
Like people, Brett’s already freaking, he’s already in pain, he doesn’t need your frakkin’ horror tales freaking him out MORE.
I’m gonna go melt more peanut brittle onto the counter just to have something to smash with the hammer again.