I never used to drink water. It's not that I hated it or anything, rather it just simply never occurred to me to drink water. There were far too many other, more interesting options. It became a joke after a while. "Why drink water when there's beer?" Yeah, hilarious. Then, it happened.
One morning last week -- while my wife & kids were away in Texas visiting my in-laws -- I was suddenly besieged with an unspeakable pain in my lower back and a nagging urge to repeatedly throw-up. I had no idea what was happening. It was as if an invisible pit bull had clamped his weapons-grade jaws of death on my lower-intestines and was patently refusing to let go. I couldn't escape the pain no matter what position I was in. I lay on the rug, on the bed, on the couch and on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor, but could find no relief. I had to keep moving. What was happening? Was it food poisoning? Did I have appendicitis? Was I pregnant? Was I possessed? I felt like John Hurt's character in "Alien." Scarier still, I was all alone. It was the Friday before Memorial Day weekend, and I couldn't think of a solitary soul to turn to. I considered crawling over to the emergency room at St. Vincent's Hospital, but the thought of writhing around on the floor of that squalid waiting room with a bunch of junkies eating fried chicken didn't really sit well with me. Adding insult to injury, my primary care physician wasn't around until 1pm. It was only 9:30 am, and I couldn't conceive of what was happening or what to do about it. The persistent pain had me hobbling around the apartment like a one man Bataan Deathmarch. It was agony.
Reluctantly, I made a breathless call to my wife (usually the more level-headed of the two of us). My mother-in-law was a nurse at one point, so I figured she might be able to tell me something. I also started rifling through my now-distressed paperback copy of "The Doctor's Book of Home Remedies for Men." Since I'd spent a a huge portion of the excruciating morning in a desperate embrace with the cool porcelain of my toilet, I wisely deduced that I should start drinking some water to rehydrate myself. With the ER option put on hold (a stupid decision, in retrospect), I decided that I'd simply call my doctor as soon as he was in and hope to God he'd have room in his schedule to see me (and summarily euthanize me, if necessary). I left a message with his frankly disinterested and not-at-all sympathetic answering service and continued my moany wobble around the apartment while chugalugging H20.
Then a strange thing happened. The invisible pit bull released me. I could stand upright without wincing. I didn't feel tip-top, but I suddenly felt a thousand times better than I had for the past three hours of physical torture. I called my wife to tell her to stop worrying. When my doctor's office called me back, I *stupidly* told them that I had a little bout with food poisoning and that I was over it. I took another shower, got dressed and resumed my day.
A few short hours later, the pain in my lower back came back and I plunged headlong into a heady pool of depression and worry. I stayed close to home over the next couple of days. Not only was I stiff and uncomfortable, I was terrified of the thought of being out somewhere and having another invisible pit bull attack. By this point, it seemed too late in the experience for it to be food poisoning. Despite the fact that my mystery condition was missing some of the usual symptoms, I started assuming that it was, in fact, a kidney stone. A friend of mine had to deal with one a little over a year ago, so I shot him a quick note to find out more. The things he had to deal with -- and I'll spare you the graphic details -- were positively harrowing. I didn't seem to be having those problems, though. While the pain was still recurring, it seemed to be gradually lessening with each day. I continued to positively irrigate myself, as if making up for the past two decades of not drinking water. Suffice to say, I presume that it was my herculean consumption of H20 that was solving the problem.
Two days after that initial attack, I was supposed to attend a play in midtown with a couple of friends of mine. Again, I worried about having another episode, but didn't want to let my friends down. I was also concerned because after drinking so much goddamn water, I had to go to the bathroom constantly. I decided to bite the bullet. I assumed my seat in jam-packed row for the final performance of Eugene O'Neil's "Desire Under the Elms," starring Brian Dennehy. Mercifully, I survived the play without incident (although Dennehy's laboriously shouty performance left me with a bit of a headache). Afterwards, we went out for a big dinner and a few beers --- two things I'd been shunning for the previous two days. While I still felt the pain, it was continuing to lessen.
Finally, I was able to make an appointment with my doctor the Tuesday after Memorial Day. Two minutes into my shpiel, he immediately told me it was a kidney stone and that I was basically a moron for not going to the ER. He sent me off to a lab for a round of tests and told me to keep drinking ridiculous amounts of water, as that was my best hope for diluting the stone and solving the problem. While the diagnosis wasn't exactly happy news, I was indeed relieved. Being able to assign my mystery pain a concrete name at last put everything in perspective.
A day or so later, the doctor called me back with my test results. By this point, the pain had pretty much subsided, and we both surmised that I had passed the stone (and/or whittled it down via water-consumption). There was another problem, though. Evidently my triglyceride level was higher that it should be. In a nutshell, I've been eating and drinking too much crap. It may have been because my diet took a severe plunge in the quality department that week my wife was away (the same week my blood was drawn), but the more probable culprit was my robust appetite for beer.
As such, I am now endeavoring to cut back. While I'm not swearing off the suds entirely, I'm attempting to curtail my routine imbibing rather significantly. I'm also vowing to continue my regimen of drinking copious amounts of water. Lastly, I'm also trying to clean up my diet. I should point out that absolutely none of this is fun. Time was when I could eat and drink with absolute impunity. For most of my life, I've been rail thin and largely healthy. Now, it's all catching up to me.
These problems aren't unique to me, though, gents. If you're a fortysomething white male like myself, let me strenuously advise you to start doing the right things. It may save you from ever having to deal with a kidney stone. Trust me on this one. It's a pain like few I've ever experienced. Learn from my mistake and go fix yourself a tall glass of water now.
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