Urology 101
It is often said that the worst pain a human can feel is the physical anguish experienced during childbirth. Ask you're Mom and she will gladly describe (in graphic detail) the day you arrived into this world. If you have not heard this tale as of yet, prepare yourself to be horrified, remorseful and guilt-ridden.
Men ("thankfully", he sighed) will never no such torture, however, many citizens of the Roanoke area have been battling a confounding menace which hits a gentleman right where he lives. Friends, I am talking about those tiny, yet terrible boulders of the bladder, kidney stones.
Unlike childbirth, one does not acquire a small living being when birthing a kidney stone. There is no bonding, no third grade photographs and no Little League with kidney stones, just a collection of sand-like particles awash in your commode. You can name your pebbles (in fact my first five were named Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill and Ron in honor of a more famous group of stones which preceded them), yet they will never answer to that name. Too frail for proper jewelry, these joyless rocks cause nothing but pain and discomfort.
My first bout with this cursed affliction came in the mid-nineties at four in the morning. Awoken by enormous pain, I first feared that I was having a heart-attack. It was only after my cool under pressure spouse pointed out that my heart was not located in my middle-back, that I realized it was something else. Ignoring my pleas to call 9-1-1, my rabbi and the Marines, Janet calmly loaded me into the car and drove me to the ER, where my first creation "Mick" was passed with the help of intravenous fluids and a soon to be trusty friend named morphine.
Since my initial trip, I have visited the ER over twenty-five times, leaving a trail of assorted sized stones in my wake. Greeted like an old friend and valued customer, I am cheerfully welcomed by the ER staff, waved onto a gurney in record time, sedated and left to sleep.
Frequently my buzz-saw like snoring becomes excruciating for the mystery patients who lay moaning on the other side of the stall curtain. In fact, I often awaken in a completely other room, moved by a well meaning orderly seeking some peace. Once I woke up in a janitor's closet amidst the mops and floor cleaners, feeling way too good to care. My wife and son can always find me at pick-up time by following the sound.
In 2006 I encountered a strikingly lovely nurse when suffering another kidney blockage. This petite woman was young enough to be my daughter and was fresh out of nursing school. At first my male ego took precedence over the pain. Toughing it out for the first fifteen minutes I hoped that this vision of loveliness would fail to glimpse the pathetic wimp inside of me, however, in the twenty-first minute without drugs I transformed into a whining, moaning tot ready to sacrifice my nurse friend to the pharmaceutical gods in return for a fix.
While under the influence of powerful narcotics, a typical kidney stone sufferer is asked to urinate in a small funnel-like container with a screen to filter the stones. It's kind of like panning for gold, but with pee. Once the "unwanted guest" is snared in the screen, the specimen is shipped to a lab for further evaluation. Many urologists will require a kidney stone patient to collect a forty-eight hour urine sampling after passing a stone. If you are instructed to perform this task, make no travel plans for the weekend, as few people are known to welcome visitors toting a two-gallon jar of bodily fluids with them. Movie theatres and restaurants seem particularly opposed to such luggage, although carrying the container does afford one with a certain amount of privacy.
Like the old woman who lived in a shoe, I keep producing and reproducing stones on a yearly basis. I drive myself to the hospital now, allowing my family to sleep when I begin that 4am kidney run to the ER. One day soon I will start running out of names for my offspring. Names from the Flintstones, Rocky (1-5), Fraggle Rock, and the Steve McQueen classic “The Sand Peebles” are taken, as well as Sidney the Kidney and Sly and the Family Stones. Please send any suggestions for names of future stones to the email address at the bottom of this column. I will consider any and all monikers once I awaken from my morphine induced stupor.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Seeing Double
Twins run in my family. My father was a twin, I have twin cousins back in New York who own a bagel shop, and, most recently, I have been accused of having a twin brother.
Allow me to explain. Recently I attended a Captain's Choice charity golf tournament at a local course. Joining a foursome of co-workers for a morning of networking, golf and selected beverages, my normally anxious demeanor was soothed by the sight of lush green fairways and pine trees swayed by a light summer breeze. No work, no phone, and no sign of rain in sight, what could be better?
Our team stumbled through the first few holes (my ball made more right turns than Rush Limbaugh cruising the Daytona Speedway in reverse), yet we managed to remain slightly under par. As is the custom for events of this kind, participating business sponsors were positioned at each hole, greeting each group of linksters with an assortment of marketing paraphernalia and trinkets. Play is usually slow during these affairs, therefore allowing the players the time to chat with their tee-box host. Our team took full advantage of our new friend's hospitality and ravaged each booth for tsotchkies like a horde of crazed gypsies. By the time we completed the final hole, our golf bags were full of junk and our score fell somewhere between first and last place.
Tired, yet relaxed I headed for my car smiling at the prospect of driving a vehicle with air conditioning. On my way to the parking lot I was stopped by my friend Ron who asked me if I would like to play with his group in the afternoon flight. Ron wasn't looking for a ringer to tip the tourney scales in his favor and hadn't found one in me. My golf game is less stable than a South American government. I once shot seventy-seven and ninety-nine on the same course during the same week. Ron was looking for a warm body.
Quickly, I returned to my trunk, grabbed a spare shirt, changed, and off I went for another eighteen holes.
Waiting at the first tee-box were the same eager business-types that I had visited and chatted with during the morning round. I was pocketing another souvenir from my booth visit when I was approached by the tent attendant who asked if I had played earlier that morning. Before I could answer Ron stepped in and said "That must have been his twin brother Dave, their identical you know."
Temporarily stunned, the woman smiled and told me how much I looked like my brother. Sensing an opportunity to have some fun, I asked her if Dave had been friendly to her and if she had smelled alcohol on his breath. She assured me that Dave was quite pleasant and did not appear to have been drinking, although he did cuss a little when his tee shot vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon I posed as Dave's twin brother. One person noted that I was thinner than Dave (must have been the heat); another thought Dave was slightly taller. Nearly everyone agreed that I was the better golfer of the two (I played eighteen holes as a warm up) and had less of a temper (too tired to care).
During a particularly long wait between holes Ron loudly announced that my family history was particularly fascinating and that Dave and I had been separated at birth, the result of a hospital mix-up. Staring holes through my grinning partner, I launched into a dizzying off-the-cuff tale of mistaken identity which landed Dave in an Amish farming community for most of his youth. My twin had taught himself to play golf with a shorted corn stalk and a ball of yarn back in his family barn in Pennsylvania. Dave would later shun the ways of his adoptive parents and travel to New York, where we would miraculously meet face-to-face when paired as two single golfers by a nearsighted starter at Bethpage Golf Course, home of the 2009 U.S. Open. I could have killed Ron.
By the end of the round I was getting sick of Dave, a twin who did not even exist. As I walked to my car for the second time, a person from one of the business booths waved and wished me a good night. "Thank you!" I said, lowering my clubs into the trunk. "Your welcome" she replied "I'm sorry, which one are you, Jon or Dave?" I wanted to answer "I'm the other brother Larry", but frankly, I didn't have the strength.
Twins run in my family. My father was a twin, I have twin cousins back in New York who own a bagel shop, and, most recently, I have been accused of having a twin brother.
Allow me to explain. Recently I attended a Captain's Choice charity golf tournament at a local course. Joining a foursome of co-workers for a morning of networking, golf and selected beverages, my normally anxious demeanor was soothed by the sight of lush green fairways and pine trees swayed by a light summer breeze. No work, no phone, and no sign of rain in sight, what could be better?
Our team stumbled through the first few holes (my ball made more right turns than Rush Limbaugh cruising the Daytona Speedway in reverse), yet we managed to remain slightly under par. As is the custom for events of this kind, participating business sponsors were positioned at each hole, greeting each group of linksters with an assortment of marketing paraphernalia and trinkets. Play is usually slow during these affairs, therefore allowing the players the time to chat with their tee-box host. Our team took full advantage of our new friend's hospitality and ravaged each booth for tsotchkies like a horde of crazed gypsies. By the time we completed the final hole, our golf bags were full of junk and our score fell somewhere between first and last place.
Tired, yet relaxed I headed for my car smiling at the prospect of driving a vehicle with air conditioning. On my way to the parking lot I was stopped by my friend Ron who asked me if I would like to play with his group in the afternoon flight. Ron wasn't looking for a ringer to tip the tourney scales in his favor and hadn't found one in me. My golf game is less stable than a South American government. I once shot seventy-seven and ninety-nine on the same course during the same week. Ron was looking for a warm body.
Quickly, I returned to my trunk, grabbed a spare shirt, changed, and off I went for another eighteen holes.
Waiting at the first tee-box were the same eager business-types that I had visited and chatted with during the morning round. I was pocketing another souvenir from my booth visit when I was approached by the tent attendant who asked if I had played earlier that morning. Before I could answer Ron stepped in and said "That must have been his twin brother Dave, their identical you know."
Temporarily stunned, the woman smiled and told me how much I looked like my brother. Sensing an opportunity to have some fun, I asked her if Dave had been friendly to her and if she had smelled alcohol on his breath. She assured me that Dave was quite pleasant and did not appear to have been drinking, although he did cuss a little when his tee shot vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon I posed as Dave's twin brother. One person noted that I was thinner than Dave (must have been the heat); another thought Dave was slightly taller. Nearly everyone agreed that I was the better golfer of the two (I played eighteen holes as a warm up) and had less of a temper (too tired to care).
During a particularly long wait between holes Ron loudly announced that my family history was particularly fascinating and that Dave and I had been separated at birth, the result of a hospital mix-up. Staring holes through my grinning partner, I launched into a dizzying off-the-cuff tale of mistaken identity which landed Dave in an Amish farming community for most of his youth. My twin had taught himself to play golf with a shorted corn stalk and a ball of yarn back in his family barn in Pennsylvania. Dave would later shun the ways of his adoptive parents and travel to New York, where we would miraculously meet face-to-face when paired as two single golfers by a nearsighted starter at Bethpage Golf Course, home of the 2009 U.S. Open. I could have killed Ron.
By the end of the round I was getting sick of Dave, a twin who did not even exist. As I walked to my car for the second time, a person from one of the business booths waved and wished me a good night. "Thank you!" I said, lowering my clubs into the trunk. "Your welcome" she replied "I'm sorry, which one are you, Jon or Dave?" I wanted to answer "I'm the other brother Larry", but frankly, I didn't have the strength.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Ineptitude Prevails
Somewhere, in a forest near you, the MonsterQuest team is searching the underbrush for something abnormal, something monstrous. Unfortunately, the likelihood of these folks finding anything interesting is slim to none.
In 2007 the History Channel launched Monsterquest, a favorite program of mine which broadcasts weekly safaris into the unknown. Whether it's Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or the Louisiana Swamp Beast, MonsterQuest "scientists" span the globe searching for mysterious creatures. To date none of these elusive brutes have been captured or even seen by the camera wielding monster unit, yet, in my heart there is always hope for a shocking zoological discovery.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, a typical episode consists of….
A grainy photograph and or video tape of the alleged beast, many of which resemble a filmed costumed high school mascot taking a leak at halftime.
Eyewitness accounts of human encounters detailed by the actual folks who ran afoul of the critter. As you watch the interview it becomes clear why the creature ran back into the woods rather than chat with Bubba from Alabama.
A team of researchers hiding cameras in the woods hoping to capture the animal on film. Often the cameras yield some nice shots of bunnies and deer, but little more.
An unwavering scientific conclusion stating that upon compiling the information gathered during the show, MonsterQuest is confident in saying that they have no earthly idea what that was skulking around that old lady's porch in Fresno last fall.
Frankly I was ready to give up on this program when I caught a promo during the History Channel's cavalcade of serial killers hour which briefly renewed my hope.
Billed as "Super Rats" the MonsterQuest crew would be venturing into the wilds of Manhattan in search of giant rats. Surely even these boneheads could handle this gig? Finding a giant rat in New York should be like finding degenerate gamblers in Las Vegas, right?
My son (born and raised in Roanoke, had never seen a rat the size of a toaster oven before) sat with me as the episode hit the air. The program began with a rat "expert" claiming that the biggest rat ever captured was a mere twelve inches long and that there was no such creature as a "Super Rat."Remembering my childhood I could not believe my ears! No huge rats in New York! My near-sighted grandmother once stopped to pet a jumbo street rat mistaking the behemoth for a cat. Horrified onlookers shrieked and startled the freakish rodent which retreated into a pot hole the size of a greenside golf bunker in great haste.
Perhaps a union delegate from the NYC Rats and Rodents local 415 visited this expert before the taping, standing just off camera during the interview while holding a gun on the rat connoisseurs' next of kin.
Next a crack band of rodent lovers outfitted a normal sized rat with a tiny harness and camera, hoping that their furry partner could provide them with candid shots of a Super Rat in his underground habitat. To the surprise of no one, the rat was able to wriggle off the camera in a matter of seconds and disappeared into the ground. The previous week the same geniuses mounted a camera on a wild boar that ran off with the camera and can now be seen hosting its own public access program airing on Cox 9 opposite MonsterQuest.
The next stop for the intrepid adventures was a basement in the Bronx where a building superintendent had perfected the art of rendering large rodents unconscious with the blade of a hockey stick. This stick-handling terror had racked confirmed kills in four of the five boroughs and was determined to bag a big one for the folks out there in TV land. Sadly, the goal remained empty, not even the Gretsky of exterminators would light the lamp that evening.
MonsterQuest then sojourned into the bowels of the city's subway system and met two hobos who claimed to have seen rats the size of dogs trotting around their underground lair. The ambitious team quickly organized an undercover stake out hoping to sneak-up on the Super Rats with their twelve person camera crew sporting two hundred pounds of
high-wattage lighting, however, curiously, the Super Rats failed to appear.
Much to my dismay, the MonsterQuesters found no giant rats in New York. This week they are in Venezuela hunting giant snakes. You have to admire their pluck. I might have gone for a lighter assignment, like finding a marked-down tray of begonias at Walmart, but that's just me.
Somewhere, in a forest near you, the MonsterQuest team is searching the underbrush for something abnormal, something monstrous. Unfortunately, the likelihood of these folks finding anything interesting is slim to none.
In 2007 the History Channel launched Monsterquest, a favorite program of mine which broadcasts weekly safaris into the unknown. Whether it's Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or the Louisiana Swamp Beast, MonsterQuest "scientists" span the globe searching for mysterious creatures. To date none of these elusive brutes have been captured or even seen by the camera wielding monster unit, yet, in my heart there is always hope for a shocking zoological discovery.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, a typical episode consists of….
A grainy photograph and or video tape of the alleged beast, many of which resemble a filmed costumed high school mascot taking a leak at halftime.
Eyewitness accounts of human encounters detailed by the actual folks who ran afoul of the critter. As you watch the interview it becomes clear why the creature ran back into the woods rather than chat with Bubba from Alabama.
A team of researchers hiding cameras in the woods hoping to capture the animal on film. Often the cameras yield some nice shots of bunnies and deer, but little more.
An unwavering scientific conclusion stating that upon compiling the information gathered during the show, MonsterQuest is confident in saying that they have no earthly idea what that was skulking around that old lady's porch in Fresno last fall.
Frankly I was ready to give up on this program when I caught a promo during the History Channel's cavalcade of serial killers hour which briefly renewed my hope.
Billed as "Super Rats" the MonsterQuest crew would be venturing into the wilds of Manhattan in search of giant rats. Surely even these boneheads could handle this gig? Finding a giant rat in New York should be like finding degenerate gamblers in Las Vegas, right?
My son (born and raised in Roanoke, had never seen a rat the size of a toaster oven before) sat with me as the episode hit the air. The program began with a rat "expert" claiming that the biggest rat ever captured was a mere twelve inches long and that there was no such creature as a "Super Rat."Remembering my childhood I could not believe my ears! No huge rats in New York! My near-sighted grandmother once stopped to pet a jumbo street rat mistaking the behemoth for a cat. Horrified onlookers shrieked and startled the freakish rodent which retreated into a pot hole the size of a greenside golf bunker in great haste.
Perhaps a union delegate from the NYC Rats and Rodents local 415 visited this expert before the taping, standing just off camera during the interview while holding a gun on the rat connoisseurs' next of kin.
Next a crack band of rodent lovers outfitted a normal sized rat with a tiny harness and camera, hoping that their furry partner could provide them with candid shots of a Super Rat in his underground habitat. To the surprise of no one, the rat was able to wriggle off the camera in a matter of seconds and disappeared into the ground. The previous week the same geniuses mounted a camera on a wild boar that ran off with the camera and can now be seen hosting its own public access program airing on Cox 9 opposite MonsterQuest.
The next stop for the intrepid adventures was a basement in the Bronx where a building superintendent had perfected the art of rendering large rodents unconscious with the blade of a hockey stick. This stick-handling terror had racked confirmed kills in four of the five boroughs and was determined to bag a big one for the folks out there in TV land. Sadly, the goal remained empty, not even the Gretsky of exterminators would light the lamp that evening.
MonsterQuest then sojourned into the bowels of the city's subway system and met two hobos who claimed to have seen rats the size of dogs trotting around their underground lair. The ambitious team quickly organized an undercover stake out hoping to sneak-up on the Super Rats with their twelve person camera crew sporting two hundred pounds of
high-wattage lighting, however, curiously, the Super Rats failed to appear.
Much to my dismay, the MonsterQuesters found no giant rats in New York. This week they are in Venezuela hunting giant snakes. You have to admire their pluck. I might have gone for a lighter assignment, like finding a marked-down tray of begonias at Walmart, but that's just me.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Sky is Ablaze
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.
What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.
Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.
Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.
In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.
I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.
Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.
No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.
If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.
What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.
Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.
Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.
In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.
I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.
Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.
No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.
If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!
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