Operation Crazy Straw

I made the mistake of googling my procedure.

When you hear “stent,” what comes to mind?

Maybe a tiny coil, smaller than a thimble? Maybe a micro sized umbrella, like a cocktail decoration for a fairy garden?

Okay, so maybe I didn’t have a reasonable understanding of stents going into this, but I’m pretty sure my doctor didn’t elaborate on purpose.

Because Google revealed ureteral stents are over EIGHT INCHES LONG with curlicues at each end.

In other words, I was electing to have a crazy straw shoved all the way up my pee tube and into my kidney for FIVE DAYS.

I was equally worried about mast cell reactions to the surgery and stent. This was my first procedure since my mast cell disease diagnosis and I had no idea how I would react to some medications such as anesthesia.

However, I needed the procedure. My kidney stones were aggravating my mast cells. My kidney was constantly aching and the pain was spurring low grade fevers.

I shared all my fears with my surgeon. He listened to me, and agreed to follow the pre-op and emergency mast cell disease protocol. He tried to reassure me.

“I will leave a string, so if the stent become unbearable, you can always pull it out,” he said smiling. “Like a tampon!”

This is when I realized we would never quite be on the same page. I’m pretty sure ripping out my own eight-inch stent would be a ticket to the Anaphylaxis Express. I also questioned his familiarity with tampons. Again, I am not a medical professional, but there is a significant difference between a pee tube and a baby tunnel.

*****

My first sentence out of the operating room was, “Why did you wake me up? I was in Fiji.”

And then, “I need to pee.”

This is less curious when you realize I can only drink Fiji water.

The nurse assured me that I didn’t actually have to pee. They had drain my bladder with a catheter and I was feeling irritation from the procedure. After a quick assessment, I realized I felt quite good! My fever and kidney pain was gone! I proceeded to chat with everyone with the recovery room that was conscious. I have a suspicion that my mast cells loved the sedative.

My surgeon reported that he removed 5-10 stones, most of which were too big to pass! I basically had a quarry in my kidney!

Everyone told me the stent would be awful. They warned me that I would scream when I peed. So I emotionally prepared for death. Instead, I burst out of the bathroom, “I PEED! IT WAS FINE! I CAN DO THIS!”

The remainder of the day was awesome. For the first time in months, I had no pain. I bounced around my condo, confusing and concerning my caretaker. Thanks to prednisone, I bid her adieu at 10 pm and pulled all-night creative extravaganza. My poodle pulled a blanket over his head.

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end here. After all, it’s a mast cell story. Read part two.

Coloring is hard, friendships are harder

“When can I come over?” she messaged me.

I panicked. Does she know I am boring, feeble, and can’t offer anything except Fiji water?

For months, I had been writing the saddest story of abandonment (starring ME) in my head. None of my friends had visited me since my diagnosis. Unable to leave my house, I wished for movie nights and home cooked meals. When wishing proved futile, I alluded to my chronic illness fantasies on Facebook to no avail.

What if we have nothing to talk about and she decides I’m a total loser? Do you know what’s worse than no friends? Rejection. I hope she forgets me entirely.

“Wednesday?” she messaged me.

Either I would have to accept her offer or wither alone in my hypocrisy. I reminded myself that she used to work in home care, and therefore was professionally trained to deal with my awkwardness. “Okay,” I said.

She did not arrive alone. Behind her, she pulled a suitcase full of coloring books, pens, and markers. We spread them across the table and began coloring our respective pages. I don’t usually enjoy coloring, but I was thankful to have company and something to focus on other than my 43,295 allergies.

Over the next several months, she continued to visit and even gave me a poodle coloring book. I warmed up to these visits. Maybe a bit too much.

Damnit, I wrecked the best poodle in this book. I couldn’t have picked an uglier color. Now I’m going to burn the whole book. I growled with frustration and showed my friend.

“Well you don’t have to sell it!” she exclaimed. I was stunned by her frankness, and then I laughed. A true friend doesn’t sugar coat your ugly poodle.

Third grade Valentine’s Day lessons

My best Valentine’s Day memories are not romantic. In fact, my fondest memory was the result of a lot of puke. In third grade, I woke up with the flu on Valentine’s Day. I tried to get ready for school anyway, determined to pass out the valentines I painstakingly crafted the night before, but I vomit-blasted the hallway with such ferocity that I quickly retreated back to bed. All day, I lay in bed, brokenhearted and feverish, with only an empty bucket to console me. (Okay, I’m pretty sure my mom was around too, but we remember what we feel, even if it is a little dramatic.) My valentine mailbox, a shoebox covered in construction paper, sat empty on my dresser.

That day I learned:

How to control vomit
Sometimes illness forces you to stay home, no matter what day it is
Valentine’s Day sucks when you’re all alone

Then, at 3:30, the doorbell rang. I heard my mom invite the visitor inside. A few seconds later, my bedroom door opened. My third grade teacher entered the room.

“AHHHHH, she in my house!” I thought, sitting in my pajamas, but feeling completely naked. “She is breaking the rules! How did she find me?”

“I brought you this,” she said, handing me a shoebox covered with red and pink hearts. “I hope you feel better soon.”

After she left and I recovered from the realization that teachers can leave school, I opened the box. Inside were 22 handcrafted valentines from my classmates, and one from my teacher.

I wish you a healthy Valentine’s Day, full of thoughtful surprises. And if that’s not possible, please don’t wait for your third grade teacher to show up at your door. Sometimes self-care is the best valentine of all.