I’m having a shitty night. I just told M. to get the hell out. I have another kidney stone. Every time it moves the pain becomes so intense I make involuntary sounds. I breathe loudly and moan every so often (without my consent.)
It comes and goes in waves. When the pain subsides, it leaves me feeling drained. Rinse and repeat until the damn thing passes. I’m sipping cranberry juice and water between waves. Good times. It’s nothing new and nothing to freak out over. (Especially when you’re not the one experiencing the pain.)
M. suggested I go to the ER. I told him no, I don’t want to make this experience more miserable than it is already. I think it may have offended him since he’s a medical professional. Sigh.
Later, when the pain returned, M. repeated his suggestion. (!!!) I told him he should go sleep at his apartment because this is probably going to continue all night, and I won’t change my mind. Then he went into doctor mode and started telling me he knows what’s best.
I could feel my blood pressure rising. M. said he doesn’t understand why I won’t utilize medical care when I should be thankful I’m fortunate enough to have it when lots of people don’t. (I was curled in the fetal position on the floor, doing something like Lamaze breathing to deal with the pain.)
I crawled to my desk and gave him a thumb drive copy of my VA medical records, dating back to when I got out of the Army. I (too loudly) told him to read them if he wants to know why I’m not going to the (expletive) ER. Then I told him to get out.
I regret I was brusk, but I was also preoccupied. My medical records are a fascinating read. I’m probably going to publish them as part of a dissertation on racism in the medical field. It’s a surprisingly thick file considering all it honestly says is, the patient is black and doesn’t count, over and over again.
I’m so lucky to have medical coverage, she said through clenched teeth.