Let’s get stoned
Pain for women is a relative thing. We tolerate a lot of crap. Until my recent back episode, I’d never really had pain that I couldn’t handle. Monday I found out that some unexplained occurrences in my life were actually gallstones.
Yes, gallstones, they aren’t for little old ladies anymore. When I received the test results, I checked with my primary care doctor, WebMD, who told me the symptoms. I did a little pain flashback and realized I’ve probably had gallstones for 15 years. The half dozen episodes I’ve had in my lifetime registers on the pain meter somewhere between monthly cramps and my marriage. That kind of pain is easy enough to ignore with a shot of Mylanta.
This week I reverted back to behavior I haven’t displayed since 9/11. We all went a little crazy afterwards with our “you only live once” escapades. Everything was explained with “if you don’t _____, the terrorists win.” Monday night I decided to see if having a couple of Double Barrell ales would break up the stones. Tuesday I tried sonic therapy and listened to The Ramones for hours. Wednesday I got tragically close to opening a $28 bottle of wine, but detoured to the fruit bowl and made a protein smoothie with overripe fruit which my colon paid dearly for today.
My week of denial has left me tired. The stones have won for sure and reminded me I’m closing in on 40. I’ll just drink a beer while I wait for the doctor to call me back. That could take a while with today’s health care. Maybe I should just order a keg.