The Stone (Part 5)

I did not wet myself. Instead, I held my breath. There were many metallic-sounding noises in this robot cavern. I still proceeded not to wet myself and was relieved that, in fact, the warm feeling in my groin area was from the viscous liquid I had consumed one hour prior.

“You may now breathe.” The tinny, melodic robot woman voice floated into my eardrums and pulled my desultory thoughts back to the present. “Hold your breath for 10 seconds.” I began a new round of holding my breath. In this metal holding container, I held my breath and pondered my terrible luck. I still had no idea what was the matter with me, and I feared the worst. The possibility of grave illness rockets a person’s thoughts to the galaxy of unreasonableness, a place I had visited before, becoming sick during travels in foreign countries most prominent in my mind.

I recalled times in Ghana and Guatemala when even the slightest symptom produced intense concern. A headache? It must be malaria. A stronger headache? It must be malaria…and brain worms. My concern, as I lay supine in that beeping tin can did not reach such prodigious levels, but I was concerned nonetheless.

A series of breath inhalations, holds, and exhalations followed. Extracted slowly from the expensive metal Cat Scan device at last, I emerged slowly, horizontally from my enclave. The only thing missing was a fog machine producing an ominous backdrop of smoke plumes. I felt like a mummy king excavated from some tomb deep in the catacombs, except I certainly did not possess royal status, and I even more certainly was in a faded, floral-patterned hospital gown.

The operator of the CAT Scan machine helped me back into my wheelchair, and my trusty nurse wheeled me back to the room where K was patiently waiting for me. There was one big difference between K and I, however. She was of sound mind, and I was not. The morphine was still in my body milling about and tinkering with my thought processes, after all.

I immediately began to speak what I thought were lucid expressions of my innermost thoughts, but in reality were garbled attempts at the English language.

“K…..they scanned me, and there was a voice. There was a voice telling me to hold my breath. But, it was, it was Bruce!” K’s cat is named Jelly Bean, but I have always called it Bruce. Don’t ask me to explain the way my mind works. “Bruce was in the machine, and he talked to me! He was in the machine!!!”

“Was he now?” She tilted her head and smiled, attempting to play along.

“Yesssss. He wassss. He told me to hold my breath for 10 seconds. For 15 seconds. It was Bruce! Mewwwwwwwwwwww.”

Laughter from K.

“Mewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”

This unintelligible rambling continued for a while longer, and quite frankly, I can’t remember what else was said between us; part of me thinks that this is a good thing.

I was floating on a delightful morphine cloud, puffy with goodness and soothing properties. My life was great. My girlfriend was by my side. What could go wrong?

Then, the nurse and the CAT Scan operator walked into my room, and I suddenly remembered why I was in the hospital, committing a fashion crime in my flowing gown. The machine operator spoke. “Well Jordan, your insides look fine.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “But we did find something.” Immediately panic-stricken, I gripped the sides of the bed. “We found a kidney stone. It’s not a very big one, but we saw it in the scan.” Previously exasperated, I relaxed at the sound of the not so frightening news. Still, a kindey stone? 24 years old, and a kidney stone? I knew I had the bowels of an 80 year-old man, but now kidney issues? What would be next? Spider veins and awkward, persistent halitosis?

The nurse then took control of the conversation and started to explain why I might have developed a kidney stone. Too much meat and too much spinach were listed as possible causes. I’m not a dinosaur, and I’m not a rabbit, so I dismissed those theories. Not enough water was another possibility. That had to be it. After college, I began to guzzle coffee like a Hummer imbibing vast quantities of gasoline, and I didn’t typically replenish my body with much-needed fluids, thus drying out my body substantially. That, and the fact that kidney stones run in my family, had to be the cause of my current anguish.

The nurse prescribed some pain medication for the crushing despair I would still have to undergo and Flomax to, very bluntly, make passing the stone easier. If I didn’t feel elderly before, I sure did then. To top it off, I was also given a funnel-like thing to catch the forthcoming tiny terror of a kidney stone.

For the next couple of days, I took the pain medication to assuage the waves of pain, and I took the Flomax to help my kidney stone friend on its journey out of my body. The pain waxed. The pain waned. Urinating sure felt strange with the aid from the Flomax pills, easing the urinating process, but you know what? After three, four, and five days, that stone never came. Maybe its size was so infinitesimal that it exited my body without a trace. Maybe it disintegrated somewhere on the way out of my body. Or maybe, just maybe, that kidney stone, that rotund renegade, is hiding out in my body and waiting for the most inopportune time to strike again.

The Stone (Part 4)

The viscous liquid went down more easily than I thought it would. I had been warned that it would be vile and difficult to swallow. I, for some reason, have an affinity for bitter drinks like India Pale Ales, and it was not half bad. That is not to say the other half was good; it was somewhere in between wretched and peculiar. The drink was given to me in something closely resembling a miniature bucket, and I was able to down it in about 10 minutes.  Since the liquid needed time to settle inside my body before it could illuminate my insides for the CAT scan machine, the next step was to patiently wait.

The morphine had me feeling good. I continued to glare at K like a maniacal circus clown and jabbered on about how I was feeling. K was bemused at best.

At last the hour was upon me; it was time for the CAT scan to discover my fate. Incredibly awkward in my ravishing hospital gown and IV attached to my arm, I scooted to the edge of the bed. Careful to not catch the IV tube on anything, I twisted and turned until I successfully flopped into the proffered wheelchair. Slowly, the nurse wheeled me to the room that housed the ominous CAT scan machine.

I’ve had the good fortune to be a visitor in many a hospital, so I was no stranger to being wheeled in a wheelchair. Bad thoughts always tend to go through my mind when I am in a wheelchair, not because I am in a hospital and there is something most likely wrong with me, but because of the speed at which nurses wheel his or her captive audience. Wheelchair speed is slow speed, much slower than the walking pace of a typical human being. For once, I would like a nurse to wheel me around and brightly chirp into my ear, “Jolly good. We’ll get you right to where you need to be going, and soon you will be out and about in the crisp, clear air, aye you will!”

This does not happen.

Instead, the pace is slow, and the wheelchair participant’s thoughts – this time, my own- are rampant. What is going on? Why is everyone looking at me? Is there something growing out of my head now? Why are we moving so slowly? Where am I going? Is this hospital a maze? This gown sure is drafty.

And so I was wheeled. Arriving to the room, I saw a machine that looked better suited for a spaceship than a hospital room. It was about six feet tall, silver and had a round opening akin to a cannon.  The CAT scan machine would hopefully explain what was the matter with me.

Handing me over to a new woman like you may pass a football to a teammate, the nurse left the room, having completed her transport duty. The new woman was amicable enough. Maybe the morphine in my body mixed with the viscous mystery fluid, because I felt fine. I was loopy, and everything this new woman told me was agreeable information.

“You will have to lie down here, and this will slowly move you into the machine.”

Fine. Just fine.

“You will hear a woman’s voice. She will ask you to hold your breath for different time intervals.”

Holding breath seemed fun.

“The time will increase, but you should not have to hold it for more than 30 seconds.”

I would hold it for one thousand seconds.

“Make sure you hold still when you are holding your breath.”

Still I would be.

“That liquid you drank may make you feel like you need to go to the bathroom when you are in that machine, but you won’t actually have to go.”

Weird, but okay.

“Alright, get on up there and put your head right here,” the woman said as she motioned to an uncomfortable-looking headrest.  I settled into place. The machine started to move. Soon I heard the women’s voice; it was a lovely robotic tone.

“Hold your breath for 10 seconds,” the robot woman instructed.

I suddenly had a tremendous urge to pee my pants. Actually, it felt more like I had already had an accident. I nervously gulped, closed my eyes, and began to hold my breath.

In Retrospect (2011)

To all of my followers who are still hanging on by a thread, dangling in the hope that I will update regularly, instead of sporadically, that is not going to happen. I do hope, however, that you will keep reading and that you all had a happy holiday break with loved ones. Not all holidays are easy for everyone; they are frequently laden with grief and thoughts of family members who passed on. Cherish what you have, and live in the moment, which leads me to the main point of this post.

A year ago at this time, I made my first serious resolution, and I can happily say that, at this time, I have stuck to my resolution. A year ago, I made a promise to myself that I would attempt to be present as often as possible; I would catch unnecessary thoughts as they sprout and take root in my brain and squash them. For the most part, I have been successful.

When you fill your head with thought, you lose the present moment, the most important thing that you have. Is it actually necessary to worry about that work assignment while you are driving in your car? What good will actually come of doing that? It will only distract you, possibly cause you to get an accident, and will not be productive thought. There is a time for thought, time which should be set aside accordingly.

From time to time, I've read books about Buddhist thought, about folks who are overjoyed to be performing mundane tasks, such as driving to work. They see the green leaf or the blue water and are imbued with warmth and happiness. I'll be the first to admit that I choked on my own laughter when I first read ideas like those. It sounded new-age, touchy feels and not for me. 

Until I tried it.

I can veritably say that I feel emotionally and mentally stronger as a result. Do you worry about the future? I used to. A lot. Do you worry about the near future? I worried about that quite a bit. But the future is the future, and the past is the past; there is NOTHING we can do to change them. 

Yes, I know. You probably heard this from some kind of motivational speaker when you were in high school. You probably gave a little chortle, wondered about the possibility of chicken nuggets for school lunch, and muted the rest of the speech out.

So, you have a work assignment due soon. Can you finish it now? No? Then don't worry about it. Do you have to prepare your house for a social gathering? If there is nothing you can do to impact that situation, don't let it cause you emotional distress. Do you worry about events down the road that may or may not happen? Hey, you may very well be late to an event, or lose your keys, or forget to buy groceries down the road. It's silly to worry about that, right? Just because an event in any closer in time does not mean you should worry about it more.

I'm not perfect. I still worry about the future, and I still fret about the past. I am, however, getting better at being present, and I think that is worth the effort. I'm more attentive to things that truly matter. 

I started to see the sun shining through the trees more and not the work responsibilities raining into my mind. It made me happier. It is the only serious resolution I have ever made. I kept it this year, and I intend to keep it in 2012.

Give it a shot. It it doesn't work for you, I'd like to hear about it. 

I wish everyone a safe, happy holiday and a new year filled with emotional and professional growth. 

Cycle Safely,

JBrown 

The Stone (Part 3)

The pain crept through my back and shoulders. It felt like a sunburn, yet the pain was also internal, the heat emanating outwards and creating an odd, painful burning sensation in my shoulders. It pulsed slowly through my back into the nape of my neck. The nurse continued to stare at me, a disquieting expression painted on her face.

Concerned, I declared, “This does not feel right.” The nurse continued to stare at me, as I entertained the thought that I was having an adverse reaction to the morphine.

Then, the pain suddenly eased and receded. Replaced by the pain was a great, calming feeling. It traveled from my back down into my arms and legs. I felt constricted by the feeling, yet subdued. I felt relaxed, but tethered. The nurse smiled. Her once concerned countenance was now a newly painted canvas of calm. Everything seemed to be beautiful, and I was reassured that I was going to be ok. Whatever was wrong with me, it did not matter, because there was something wonderful going on in my body. K asked if I felt fine. I did feel fine. My body was enveloped in a cloud, and I was but a wisp of cloudy goodness, majestic and pure.

Suddenly the nurse stooped down to adjust the IV in my arm. For some reason, as she hovered over me, I realized something. I realized she possessed a beautiful neck. It was enchanting. I could not take my eyes off of it. I was aware that K was probably watching me glare at this woman’s neck, and that it must seem strange, but I did not care. This neck was the bee’s knees of necks; this neck was the ultimate neck. I did not know why I found this neck so incredible until I realized that it must be from the morphine.  The beautiful neck lady finished up her tidings of the equipment and tubes around my body and, with a nod, left the room by pulling the curtain and pulling it back into place.

I shifted my head to glare at K instead. “What is this look?” K inquired.

“What look?” I answered with a smile.

“You are staring at me,” she countered.

“Oh.” I said. “I don’t know.”

“Do you feel alright?” she asked with a look of amusement and a dash of concern.

“Yeah I feel fine. It still hurts a little bit.” I continued to mutter, saying goofy phrases that I can’t recall now. K played along, like one does with a hyperactive child. I tittered about in my state for a couple minutes more until the nurse returned with another woman.

I soon learned that this new woman would be explaining the CAT scan process to me. I was informed that I needed to drink a particularly disgusting liquid that would allow my insides to be seen in luminescent splendor and read by the CAT scan. I was ready for the task before me. The woman had more to tell me. No, this was not just about drinking something gross; there would be side effects, of course. “You may feel weird at first,” she told me. “It may feel like you have to go to the bathroom, but you won’t really have to go,” she continued.

I nodded. I have the bladder the size of a chipmunk’s, so I understood this bathroom language she was speaking. I was OK with that. It was at this time that I was told I would also be required to adorn a beautiful hospital gown in preparation for my arrival in the CAT scan chambers. I did not like the idea of this, but I acquiesced out of necessity.

K, who had transitioned from girlfriend to caretaker during my embarrassing medical malady day, was prepared to position me in my hospital dress, because, really, that is what it is. I did a morphine stupor slug slide to the end of the bed, and K helped me to remove my pants. The process was easy enough, made easier by the wonderful calming effect of the morphine, and soon I was back on the bed, my head resting comfortably on a pillow. I was prepared to tackle the disgusting drink, which would, in time I was told, light up my insides like a Christmas tree. I would have to let the liquid settle in my body for approximately half an hour.

I still had no idea what was the matter with me, but I didn’t give it much thought. I had to drink this nasty liquid; that was my priority. I looked at the container full of liquid, took a breath, and took my first gulp.

The Stone (Part 2)

“There is a speed limit. I am going as fast as I can,” K admonished me. I twisted my head and bit down onto the seatbelt like a raging pit bull. We seemed to be crawling down the road. I felt like I could have run there faster, except for the key fact that I was unable to run; this pain effectively hindered my ability to do much of anything at all. I was unable to think clearly through the astonishing waves of pain.

When I was a child, probably 9 or 10 years old, I thought I was a pretty good boogie boarder during family vacations. I would walk out into any wave of any height and battle through it. I wanted to boogie board, and no stupid wave could stop me. That was until one day when the beach where we were vacationing was struck by the tail-end of a tropical storm. Waves were supposed to increase in height. I did not heed those warnings, and a 12-foot wave slammed my frail, ragdoll, 10- year-old body into the sand and rocks. I felt helpless and stupid, much like I felt biting into the must-flavored, black seatbelt in the car with my girlfriend.

K kept driving, and I kept biting. Eventually, she turned left off of the road into a parking lot; it was the emergency room parking lot. We had made it. I flopped out of the car and began to move. My body did not want to cooperate. The pain was still pretty astoundingly bad, and I started to feel it spread downward into the right side of my lower abdomen. I zombie-walked into the building as K helped me along.

Inside the building, the woman at the front desk looked up, saw my condition, and grew slightly concerned. I attempted to explain the storm that was ravaging inside my body, but my condition had reverted me back to my early childhood state. I was a mumbling little boy. “It hurts so much on the right side of my body. Especially when I move. It.. it… urrgghghhhhhgghhhh.”

K patiently explained my dilemma.

The woman quickly snapped into action and arranged for me to be placed into a room. I’ve been in a lot of hospitals and emergency rooms. This was one of the nicer ones I had been in, and it morbidly felt like home. The floors were clean and shiny. The rooms had curtains that pulled across for privacy. I’ve always liked sliding pieces of blue material. They make me feel safe, even if the whole hospital can still hear my strange werewolf-like pain utterances when I am behind their protective cover.

A nurse came into the room and asked me the basic questions that I have heard so many times before.

“When did the pain start? What are you feeling right now? Are you allergic to any medications?”

I spit out some words, nodded, and grabbed at my side.

Then came my personal favorite question. “On a scale from 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?” Now, you need to know something. This was an important moment for me; it brought with it an epiphany of sorts. This pain was impressively horrendous.

Should I say 10? I wondered. Is it that bad? I don’t know if I have ever had pain this bad before? My brain churned and sloshed around like it was making butter, and out came words. I replied, “This is really bad. Probably a 9 or 9.5.” This experience and the increasing pain levels had proven to me that anything is possible, so I saved the elusive 10 on the pain scale for another day, another embarrassing stomach issue. It was deduced that I was to be given morphine for my pain. I was pleased, but a little nervous about the proposition.

The amiable nurse left the room and returned with a morphine kit, or whatever one needs to administer morphine to a writhing pain victim. “You may feel a little strange at first,” she told me. I nodded like a sad, sad puppy dog.

First she needed to place an IV into my arm. She inserted it incorrectly the first time and had to remove it and put it somewhere else in my arm. This caused quite a lot of pain, probably the most painful IV experience I have had, but it was nowhere near my stomach pain. Remember, this was a 9.5 out of 10 on the official hospital/emergency room universal pain scale. Once the IV was in my arm, she was able to insert fluids to keep me hydrated - next was the morphine.

Up until that point in my life, I had never had morphine. I became more and more anxious. She slowly started to inject it through the tube leading into my arm. I started to feel very strange. “It’s burning in my back and shoulders,” I complained.

“Hmm, I have never heard of that happening before,” the nurse replied.

“I feel really strange. It’s really burning in my back and shoulders. I feel really strange,” I repeated. The nursed appeared to be puzzled and concerned.

The Stone (Part 1)

I acquired a friend the other day. It was a kidney stone. You heard correctly, I got a kidney stone. I am 24 years old, and I am already contracting old man problems. It is not a pleasant feeling. I was thinking of the hilarity of the situation and the circumstances surrounding my pet stone today, so I thought I would write you all a tale. Without further ado, let’s laugh a little.

It happened in Red Lodge, Montana. I was on a nice, romantic weekend trip with my girlfriend. It was a Saturday. We were attempting to hike. Driving to the hiking destination, I noticed something was amiss. I started to get gut-wrenching pains, and my entire stomach clenched tight. Now I am no stranger to terrible stomach pains. I have a wonderful track record of getting sick nearly every time I travel, especially when I travel abroad – so I know pain levels. This pain was certainly in the upper echelon of painful experiences.

Still, I wanted to hike. Sometimes my old man stomach cannot digest food like a normal stomach, so I figured that this must be the case right now. A couple of steps and poof! This food would be digested, and I would be galloping through the Red Lodge wilderness with my girlfriend. Not so fast, Speed Racer. With each step on the dirt path, the pain increased. This cannot be digestion issues, I thought. This is really bad. At that point, I had begun to remark about the particular awfulness of this pain level. My girlfriend, K, started to become concerned.

Still, I attempted to trudge onward. Soon, the pain became so intense that I had to bend over. Then, I crouched down on the ground. Next, I slid like a broken slinky onto a rock to rest. What did I drink earlier? Was that cider bad? What did I eat? “Urggggghhh,” I began to moan. These were not manly grunts.  These were pathetic, what-kind- of-unholy-object-is-in-my-stomach-right-now kinds of sounds. K became seriously concerned.

“Let’s turn around and go back to the cabin.” We had a cute little cabin. I was ruining the weekend with my seismic stomach activity. It was so cute, this cabin, this trip. This stomach issue was not the least bit cute. Why is this happening?, I wondered.

“Urggghghhhhhhh. Nooo. I can do it.” I stated.

“No you can’t. Let’s go back.”

“Bwaaghhhhhhhhh.” Multiple caveman sounds later, I was turning around. This pain had a demon grip on my intestines, especially the right side of my stomach. Upon arriving back at the cabin, I stumbled onto the bed and began to contort my body in hideous ways. I was a dying seal. No, not a seal. Seals are too graceful. I was a walrus, and this was my least graceful hour. I arched my back. I dug my head into the bedspread like a frightened flamingo.

“Let me feel your stomach,” K said, trying to get my attention as I writhed around.

“It hurts soooooo much.” This pain was not letting up. The impossible was happening; it was intensifying. My pain was pretty impressive. If I had not been in that much pain, I would have appreciated how unbelievable it was, but, alas, I was a walrus flamingo character in a great deal of pain.

K prodded the right side of my stomach. “It’s swollen.”

“What? Nooo. Urghhh. Is it?” I asked and muttered at the same time.

“Yes. You need to go to the emergency room.” She declared.

Now, owing my life to countless hospitals around the world, you would think that I would be quick to go to these life-saving establishments. I am not. “No, I am fine.”

“You are not fine,” she replied.

“Yesssss I am.”

“No, you need to go right now.” A sharp riposte. I started to get the point.

“Okkkk,” I exhaled. “Let’s go.” Officially making this weekend one not of the romantic variety, my girlfriend helped me off the bed, and then assisted with tying my shoes, because the pain prevented me from bending over to do it myself.

Thinking at this point that I had appendicitis, K got me into the car, and off we went. Actually, throughout this entire experience, another thought was prominent. Am I constipated? No joke, I once went to a hospital in New Orleans years ago because I was constipated. I didn’t drink enough water, I was out in the sun all day volunteering for a week, and I nearly ruptured my intestines. My intestines must be horribly twisted. I did not seriously think this was the case on this particular occasion, and we continued to drive.

Minutes earlier, I had boldly declared that I did not need to go to an emergency room. At the present time, I was biting my lip and gripping the seatbelt with white knuckles, fighting off the pain. “This speed limit is sooooo slowwww. Hurry up!” I yelled. K was not amused. The emergency room was nowhere in sight.

9/11: A Short Reflection

10 years ago, I was 14 years old and in 9th grade at a high school in upstate New York when the fateful events occurred in Manhattan and Washington D.C. I remember being hopelessly naive. I also remember exactly where I was when I heard about the first plane hitting the World Trade Center. I was in the first seat of the third row from the door in Mrs. Morrow's social studies class. A boy named Andrew walked into class late and told us that a plane had hit one of the twin towers. I thought it must have been due to pilot error. I was not very concerned at that point. When I heard about the second plane, I knew something was seriously wrong. Growing up, from time to time, adults would tell me that they remembered exactly what they were doing when certain events occurred.

 For my mother, it was when John F. Kennedy was shot.

The principal made an announcement during the day to announce that school would end early. I walked home and fell onto the couch, staring in disbelief at the images on the screen. Up until that point in my life, I had never given much attention to the news or current events. Sports and video games were my life; I lived in a microcosm of the real world, my own little bubble. I could not even begin to fathom why something like this would happen. As I laid down on the couch, I drifted in and out of my sleep, awakened multiple times by the horrific images and videos on the television screen.

Why? I wondered over and over. I knew no one who lost his or her life in the terrible attacks. I was not immediately affected by it. Yet, it changed me. I began to read the newspaper more. I began to stay up to date on current events. 9/11 was not a major turning point in my life, but it affected me. I began to wonder what motivated the attackers. I believe that people are inherently good, and I struggled to grasp why individuals would engage in such horrifying, destructive behavior.

10 years later, I am very different from that boy on the couch shaking his head in disbelief. I've traveled to multiple continents; I've heard the stories of countless individuals. I've met bad people, and I've seen beautiful landscapes. I've experienced success and I've been knocked to the ground with failures. But the more I travel and the more I learn, the more I realize how connected everything is. When you attack someone else, you give them a reason to attack you. When you impose your beliefs instead of seeking common ground, you anger others. 9/11 was a terrible day for the American people. Engaging in murderous acts is despicable and should not be condoned. Yet, during the process of growing up, I have learned that all individuals have days that they will tell you were their worst days. Nations have painful moments in time that brought the people of the country together. If you accept that we are all one interconnected system as I do, you realize that when you harm others, you harm yourself. Underneath all actions are strong beliefs and time-tested convictions.

Labels can make life easier. Heuristic methods help us in our busy lives, but do we always know what we are labeling? How familiar are we with the stories of those we do not understand? Life can be bad. Life can be confusing. Life can cause us immeasurable pain. The stories that emerge from these emotions are collective. It is important to never forget the terrible events like 9/11 and take the time to understand the thoughts and emotions wrapped up in them, however they make us feel.