January 21, 2010

Seriously, I think I need to die. Right here, on the television room floor. It wouldn’t take much, just another sip of Coke and BAM! Carbonation explodation. And why am I feeling this way? Because, my friends, I think I have a kidney stone, and I think it’s on the move.
 
But that’s not the only thing on the move, because as of this moment right now, my entire innards are caught up in a mad game of spin the bottle. The Coke bottle.
 
A few years back I had the pleasure of passing my very first kidney stone. It was like giving birth, only the end result was a lot less cuddly and didn’t need a car seat.
 
We were living in Maryland, and Mr. I Need My Sleep was snuggled soundly in his bed. The pain had started that afternoon, and as evening encroached, the rock began to roll and I began to die. No joke, die. If you’ve ever had a kidney stone, you know that the only real relief would come through death, preferably by a bludgeon to the head with a blunt object because that would certainly be less painful.
 
After an hour of hurling my guts out over the toilet, I staggered back to the bedroom and woke up the beast.
 
“I think I need to go to the hospital…” I said in my pain-induced fog.

“Great. I’ll stay with the baby.” Snore.
 
I’ll stay with the baby? Seriously? There I was, as close to death as I’ve ever been, my body having been invaded by some painful, sharp edged foreign object, and he was offering to stay with the baby?

Seven hours later, alone in an abandoned emergency room devoid of any pain killers (due to my pregnant state), I passed the stone. This experience is on record as the most miserable seven hours of marital abandonment in history, period.

And so, here I sit. As I felt the familiar twinge of a moving stone, I desperately sent Mr. You’d Better Make That Up To Me to the store for a liter of Coke and a can of asparagus. Following the directions to one of the most overhyped kidney stone prevention hoaxes in history, I proceeded to chug the entire liter and wash it down with the can of asparagus (juice included) in just short of two hours.

(This might sound easy. It is not. If you don’t believe me, then by all means go chug yourself a liter of Coke and choke down a can of asparagus. Really, it would make me very happy.)

Three hours later I sit here, more miserable than I have been in years. And not only has the pain from my obvious kidney stone increased, but my poor stomach is so distended and full of carbonation, that I am sure my body rock delivery will be accompanied by a nine pound bottle of Coca Cola in it’s finest carbonated state.

Ah, there’s that nice soccer trophy of Harrison’s. Let the bludgeoning begin.

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