That's right. The car didn't crap
out this time--I did. The great cross country cat show car trip ended
with a Cat Scan at a hospital in Lima, Ohio.
On Sunday night, we left Monroe and
headed south for about 150 miles, to a WalMart in Lima, Ohio. As we
drove, my stomach and back just kept feeling worse and worse. I watched
the miles go by on the signposts, figuring all I needed was to lie down and
go to sleep. Finally, we made it to the parking lot, just as a wave
of nausea overtook me. I jumped out of the car and vomited in the parking
lot, now feeling like Cousin Eddie with a hangover, only I hadn't had
a drink all day. I wonder if Cousin Eddie felt like that after he ate
that green stuff in the Christmas movie. It was go-o-o-od.
As I left traces of my digestive juices in several places
in the parking lot, I cursed the damned cream filled doughnut I had eaten
that morning. There must have been something wrong with it. I
had no reason to be so sick.
I suggested this to Diane, who disagreed. "We all
had doughnuts this morning. None of us got sick. Besides, you
had that brown urine before you ate that doughnut."
"Then what could be causing thi--?" I couldn't finish
the sentence. I had to run outside again.
"I think it's alcohol poisoning, like you had when you
first retired."
"But I only had about two drinks a night. I wasn't
drunk."
"But you had two drinks every night for over a week, large
drinks. Your body just can't tolerate alcohol on a steady basis."
Maybe she was right. I certainly
felt the way I did six months ago--frigging awful! After a few more
visits outside, I went to bed, upside down because we were tilted in the
parking lot and the head of our bed lay lower than the foot. There was no
way I wanted anything rushing to my head.
I slept awhile, then felt better when I woke up.
"Maybe you should try to eat a couple of crackers."
I took a few Pringles and a few sips of Coke.
"I said, crackers, not potato chips!" cried Diane.
"I'm okay," I said, munching on the Pringles. I
feel a lot better. It must be out of my system now. I'm so thirsty,
though."
"You're dehydrated. Drink plenty of water." She
handed me the plastic water container that had been sitting on the floor
right next to the dogs' dish into which it was usually poured. I took
several deep draughts of the warm, plasticky water. I walked, weakly,
across the parking lot to use the WalMart restroom, then went to sleep.
I awoke about an hour later, my head
whirling, sending me that unmistakable lightheadedness that told me to run
outside again. And again. And again. And again and again and
again. (Anybody get that metaphor? I felt like the lady in the old
limerick:
There was an old lady from Spain
Who got stomach
sick on a train
Not once, but
again
And again and
again
And again and again and again.)
Eventually, the rainstorm that had
been following us, caught up to us, which was probably a Godsend to the WalMart
maintenance people, and send me back into the camper. I hated to fill
up our holding tank, but I had no choice.
In the morning, after consulting Gary's wife, Rhea, who
usually has good medical advice, Diane bought me some Pepto-Bismal for my
stomach and Pedialyte for my dehydration. I couldn't keep it down.
She and Freddy went into WalMart for some other things, as well as
to inquire about the location of the nearest hospital, and left me alone
in the camper.
My breathing got shorter and shorter. I didn't know
what to do. I began to panic, which naturally made the breathing shorter.
I'm 57 years old, and I began to worry about a heart attack or stroke.
All that regurgitation really had to put a strain on my gut, and there
was some blood in that vomit, too. I staggered across the parking lot,
and found Freddy at the register.
"Freddy. Get your mother. We have to go to
the hospital now."
The Lima hospital was about two blocks away. It
was a very nice place, with fast, excellent service. They put me on
an intravenous drip right away, got a little painkiller into me, and gave
me oxygen for the shortness of breath.
As my head cleared, and my heart proved to be working
normally, the symptoms we described to the nurse began to sound familiar.
It wasn't alcohol poisoning or a bad doughnut or a collapsing pancreas
or diabetes (the two fears in my head that I wouldn't tell Diane about),
it was another, Goddamned, freaking kidney stone! I hate those things!
As I waited in the emergency room for
a few tests, the pain medicine putting me gently to sleep, a heavyset fellow
in his forties, wearing a stethoscope came into the room and woke me up.
He had an odd look on his face. Diane described him as acting
like he was trying to perceive a diagnosis by staring at me and touching
me. Definitely, a strange dude.
"I'm Ed," he said. He looked more like a Cousin
Eddie than I ever did. "I'm in training."
He asked me the same questions as I had already answered
two or three times, fumbled with his stethoscope, then fumbling took my blood
pressure for the third or fourth time in an hour. I was beginning to
get permanent constriction marks on my left arm.
They x-rayed me, gave me a cat scan, and decided to keep
me overnight, turning me over to Dr. Jeffrey Wisser, a physician unlike those
to whom I used to seeing in Florida. He is an American who doesn't talk with
an accent. Dr. Wisser said he couldn't find a kidney stone in the Cat
Scan or X-ray. He said he found evidence of a stone, stretched, strained
tubes, traces of small lesions left behind by a stone that may have passed
by. Whatever, he gave me pain pills if I needed them; the vomiting
had ended; I felt pretty good, although I still have a pressing need to urinate
all time time.
Off we went, feeling better. Diane bought me some
medicine to help cure my wounded tubes, so it's under control. We made
it to a town in southern Kentucky that evening, but before stopping at WalMart,
we saw a sign directing us to the Original Kentucky Fried Chicken Restaurant!
