Waking up alarmed isn't new to me, so the 4:30 a.m. wake-up wasn't really out of the ordinary nor was the amount of sweat in which I found myself drowning. However, the simultaneous stabbing, cramping, and spasms in my lower left back alarmed me a great deal. Cramping, even that bad, initially made me wonder if I held something in too long, but the spasms and the stabbing sensations were a clue something was amiss.

"But whatever could be the cause," you might be thinking? I was thinking the same things. Well, not in so many words, of course. Extreme discomfort sort of preoccupied my thoughts in those wee hours.

However, as the headline suggests, the culprit was a kidney stone. It was my first stone, and, gods willing, my last. As far as pain goes, I've had some doozies over the years. Nothing ever as unpleasant as this Lil' Bastard (my name for it) was. It reduced me to a base animal selfishness that surprised me. Made me wish for, and say things, that are so far out of my character, that I'm ashamed to reflect on them.

But reflect on some of those things I will. That's what I want to write about, so that's what you get. Loosely organized, I hope you relate. Better still, I hope you never can relate. Kidney stones are one of the most painful things I've ever experienced and I don't wish them on anyone, at least not now that I'm on the mend.

Thoughts immediately upon waking up:

Might my appendix have burst? No, the pain's on the wrong side for that. Maybe it was my gallbladder? What if I just need to take a monstrous shit. God, I hope it's just that, but this is bad. Shit! I could have diverticulitis (post-Google search while attempting to defecate the pain away). My parents both had that, so I'm practically going to have that for sure. What if I'm hemorrhaging internally? Could be, but I'm still alive and not seeing any bright lights at the end of tunnels...yet.

Some levity was added, but you get the idea. This stage was short-lived and broken up by a call to my sister for help to the Emergency Department (ED), successive calls to "please hurry," and vomiting. All the while I was trying to comfort my dog, Laverne. Yes, I considered that I might be dying, but my dog's comfort is paramount.

En route to the Emergency Department:

I'm dying. Avoid the bumps. Take care of Laverne. Please hurry. I hate life.

Suffering in the Emergency Department:

Clad in pajama pants, a shirt too sweat soaked than is normally acceptable, and still wearing my theater makeup, I hobbled into my local hospital's ED. Only mildly aware of another person, outside of the nurses (they're all nurses in there and at that moment), I approached the receiving desk where my first of many thoughts struck me: "what if they turn me away because I don't have proper insurance?" They didn't turn me away, but in this day and age, I feel like that's an irrationally valid concern.

Of course, my insurance for the moment is Medicaid, so there's the atmosphere of judgment. There could be a cabal of conservative, only love you if you're a troop or a fetus, #MAGA hat wearin' Trump supporters ready to goose step out into the lobby and shame me for being such a damn financial drain on the economy.

They'll probably just think I'm there for the narcotics. Also, prone to invalidating my own concerns, I predicted that these health professionals will look at me like I'm a blubbering weak-ass that needs to take his ass home with my paltry gripes. I worry that they'll just send me home without really doing anything since I only have Medicaid.

When the doctors interrogated me, I couldn't help but think they were looking at me like some fat slug with poor eating habits whose kidney stone development was inevitable. Yes, I realize that's an internalized judgment of my own, and I'm working on reframing my own thoughts. But this is my article, so deal with it for the moment.

I whined. I swore. I also hoped they didn't think me some uncouth idiot just whimpering away on the gurney. Yes, even amidst my suffering I was concerned with how I was perceived. I didn't want to be rude since I have the utmost respect for healthcare professionals.

During a CT scan, I received an iodine contrast. If you've never received one of those, be ready. Some say they feel as though they urinate your shorts. Not me. The warmth I felt prompted me to believe I lost control of another bodily function. And I legitimately started crying. Not sobbing or moaning. A gentle crying as tears streaked down my face since I was (then) so convinced I just emptied my intestines.

Eventually, the drugs provided took a significant edge off of my misery and I was able to think somewhat coherent thoughts. My team and I decided on a plan of action, which was to hydrate the thing out of my urinary system, control the pain until such a thing came to pass (pun intended), and then move forward following testing of Lil' Bastard.

Non-specific Hell Week thoughts:

At one point, I thought I was too damn young for this shit. Then I realized, I'm not too young for this shit. People younger than myself occasionally get stones and I'm pushing 40 years.

After repeat visits to the hospital's ED, it became clear that my planned trip up north wasn't going to happen. Goodbye, Electric Forest. Goodbye, the extended weekend with friends. Goodbye, $331 base price for the ticket. I hadn't planned a personal vacation in a long damn time, so knowing I will miss this weekend of boss music, minimal clothing, and choice friends thrust me into an intense "FUCK MY LIFE" mindset that will linger for a while.

Long story short, the removal of Lil' Bastard required surgical interventions. That wasn't a cause for worry, so I won't regale you with anything about that.

In Closing:

Promises to ancient celestial entities were made, complete with blood sacrifices. Thoughts to end my suffering in other ways were mulled. Because of severe constipation, I thought I'd give anything to relieve that pressure, even if it meant the same humiliation that drew tears during my CT scan.

My suffering carried me to humorous places. It dragged me to some very dark places. It taught me a few things about myself. I'm left with the knowledge that I've been very fortunate in life, fortunate to count having a kidney stone as one the most painful experiences imaginable, even if many would agree with me.

Moving forward, I've opted to recover and reevaluate my lifestyle. Chances are I will have another stone at some point, but I don't need to invite throw open the door and set a place at the dinner table. I can conduct myself in a way to better avoid reaching this point again. Selling my soul is still on the table, but I pray it will never get that painful again.

In no way is this article inclusive of all experiences. It's merely the repository for thoughts collected over the past week during which I infrequently journaled and mostly slept when I could sleep.

What about you? Ever have a kidney stone? Want one, you know, for sake of knowing what they're all about? No? Okay, that's cool. Be aware that I sympathize. Kidney stones will be on my "No Jokes" list for the foreseeable future.