Over the past week, I’ve been a dizzy, nauseous, painful mess. A relentless ache over my right kidney kept telling me I was dying, but I’ve felt this before and my CT scan was normal.
By the time I asked for an appointment, my emotions were as unstable as my mast cells. My specialist kindly lectured me on the importance of pain management. Pain can amplify allergic reactions. I tried to argue with her at first, but then I almost projectile vomited in her lap.
This time, my ultrasound was normal. Blood and urine were also normal. I was unsurprised, yet reassured to know I was not pregnant with what felt like Rosemary’s baby. All signs pointed to my mast cells as the culprits.
“Some MCAS patients call it a nest,” my specialist said.
I quickly went through the five stages of grief.
- This is not real life.
- I just wanted a damn kidney infection and some antibiotics. Why can’t I have normal problems that normal people can understand?!
- Maybe it would be easier to be pregnant with the spawn of the devil. At least then, it eventually comes out? Is that still a possibility?
- I’m never going to feel joy again, because all I can feel is this nest.
- I have a nest in my abdomen. It’s a thing.
Basically, I have a bunch of angry mast cells congregating on my right side and using my kidney as a piñata. Last time, I endured the pain for a week and half, and then it resolved on its own. I try not to think about living with these flares for rest of my life. As you can imagine, there’s no real treatment for a nest.
So today, I’m resting, taking pain pills, and lathering my back with Benadryl cream. And telling jokes to my nest.
Why didn’t the mast cell get invited to the birthday party?
He’s too mean.
Get it… his-ta-mine.