So I spent my Christmas rolling around the floor of a Tulare emergency room floor beneath a television blaring Disney's version of Spongebob Squarepants, puking into a nearby garbage can for some 5 or 6 hours until they could shove me in a hallway for another hour or so, and finally out into the cold for another scan. "It's cold," I told the guy wheeling me outside in my robe with no underwear on. I'd showed up commando in my boyfriend's Lucky Charms pajama pants. "Take off everything but your underwear and your socks," they'd said, tossing a robe at me. I'm not wearing either of those things, I thought with dismay. Eventually I ended up in a cubicle of sorts with an IV of painkillers, drifting in and out of consciousness, waking only when The Boyfriend's hair would touch my face. "I love you," he said, and kissed me.
"Mmmmmrrrgggg." I answered. They let me go around nooner with a prescription for more fake Vicodin.
Kidney stones are getting to be a real pain in my ass. And side and back. I'm currently pissing in a giant orange jug for 24 hours and returning it to a lab, who will relay their findings on it to my urologist, who had better do something about it this time. I don't ever want to go through that again, man.
So in addition to returning my piss to the lab tomorrow, I'm looking at an apartment over by the college again. I need to be in my own space so desperately. For things to calm down and even out. I am hoping 2014 will bring that.