I saw Fluffy Little Bunnies everywhere on Easter this year. And I don’t mean on the shelves at Wal-Mart amongst the chocolate eggs and the Peeps. I saw Fluffy Bunnies at the ER near Stone Mountain, GA where I spent Easter evening trying to pass a beast of a kidney stone. Thanks to two consecutive doses of morphine, I was definitely stoned in Stone Mountain for Easter. Fluffy Bunnies abounded!
In the moment, there is not much funny about having a kidney stone. But, like all of life, after the crisis is over, there is always a retrospective humorous side. I gained this perspective when I read the instruction on the drug information sheet for the medications that the ER doc sent me home with.
My first chuckle came when I read that I’ve been prescribed a drug that is usually given to men to treat the signs of an enlarged prostate. I am not sure what I should be aware of for side effects, but I am watching carefully for chin whiskers and a stache. That would add insult to injury. I am supposed to tell my doctor if I am pregnant. The medical community should stop asking me that. I don’t get carded in pubs anymore, so stop asking an old lady if she is pregnant.
Also, no one told me that this medication would kick in suddenly on the second day while I was in the car in rural Georgia with no bathroom in sight. Oh dear Lord have mercy! First, I cannot pee and now I cannot stop. What kind of cosmic joke is this? The instructions suggest that I talk with my doctor before I drink alcohol. What should I do? Ask him out for drinks? Because, I definitely need a drink.
And then the informational flyer lists other side effects. First on the list is “a change in sex ability.” Given the rest of the list, which includes cough, loose stools, runny nose, mood changes, gas, vomiting and headache, who would want to have sex with me anyway?
I am further cautioned not to share my drugs with anyone. Who would want this drug which causes you to constantly plot a course between bathrooms and become a public nuisance when there is a line for the lady’s room.
You might ask where Arnie was in all of this fun and games. When it became clear that we would be at the ER for an extended period of time (all night and into the morning), I sent him home for a few essentials. In the chaos of leaving the house in excruciating pain, Arnie had grabbed whatever garb was within near reach for me to wear and he decked me out in a pair of his own men’s dress socks along with a fetching inside-out zebra print pair of skimpy panties belonging to my daughter in law. He pulled up the beaten-up jeans I had gardened in all day and topped it off with a striped nightgown, no bra, no shoes. Out the door we flew, with me doing a striking imitation of a Ringling Brothers circus clown in that ensemble. It was Homeless Chic. I was in danger of being mistaken for an escaped mental patient, especially after the second dose of morphine kicked in leaving me in a sleepy slump in the wheelchair.
These are the times that might make a weaker man question his choice of brides, but Arnie took vows and so, off he went to get some supplies to clean up my act. Time marched on and, after several hours, I began to be a bit concerned that he had been gone quite awhile. As our only cell phone began to lose the last little bit of charge, I fantasized about him wandering the streets of downtown Atlanta in the wee hours trying to locate the place he left me behind. Knowing he would never ask directions and was relying upon our unreliable GPS in the truck, I prepared to send out a Silver Alert on my husband. About this time, he walked in the door sheepishly denying that he had been lost. He was instantly forgiven because he brought me coffee and breakfast. I might add that this somewhat congealed breakfast had clearly been cooked several hours prior, but who’s looking for clues or hard evidence of his being lost.? Not me, Lost Boy. I am just glad you made it back.
Here’s to Fluffy Bunnies and Lost Boys! We leave GA on Friday to go make some more tender memories!