It's about 2:30 am I'm swearily sleepless and testily uncomfortable for the sixth night in a row. Remember this weepy saga of a couple of weeks back? Well, to make a long story short, it turns out that I ain't out of the woods yet. I haven't yet passed that kidney stone. After a week and change of rather pronounced discomfort (I shan't go into any of the wince-inducing intricacies of the situation), I went back to my wiseacre of a doctor to tell him I was still in trouble. In turn, he sent me (finally) to a specialist; an Icelandic urologist with far too many consonants in his name. He, in turn, sent me across the street to St. Vincent's hospital for a cat scan to make a proper diagnosis (something that should have happened weeks ago). The cat scan itself took no time at all (although unspooling all the red tape of registering at St. Vincent's hospital took a goddamn age). At last, I had a lab technician tell me that yes, it is inarguably a friggin' kidney stone that's been turning my life into a facsimile of Hell, albeit a "small one." Yeah, easy for him to say. It may be small, but it feels like I have a disconsolate blowfish swimming around in my innards.
In any case, I get to talk with my Icelander doc again tomorrow, who -- I'm truly hoping -- will have some swift course of action in mind. I'm not sure how much more of this torture I can withstand.
Now go drink another tall goddamn glass of water.
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