Government Issue Kidney Stones

When the idea for my book first came to me I was telling my son, Benjamin – who was quite a bit younger than he is now – about the time I had a kidney stone while serving in the U.S. Air Force during the Cold War back in the 1980s. (Ok, so I was stationed at the Presidio of Monterey, California, but there was a war on. At least, that’s what they kept telling us. Hey, I got a medal.)

Any-who, I was eagerly describing to Ben that it didn’t seem possible that it had been so long since I faced the threat of having an friendly Air Force doctor “go in after” that pesky kidney stone with a look in his eye that had me more than slightly alarmed.

“You have to understand the times,” I said, to Ben as we ate some Coco puffs one morning. “This was during the Cold War.”

“What’s a cold wart?” the Son of My Right Hand asked, crunching ever so seriously.

“The Cold war. The “t” is silent, like the “p” in phish. It was a war that wasn’t really a war. We just acted like it was.”

“You mean like a cold that really isn’t the flu but that’s what you tell your boss so you can stay home from work and watch movies with me?” Bright kid.

“Yeah. Something like that.”

I explained that while we all constantly trained for war we never actually fought in one. It made us all just a little nuts, I think. It was kind of like practicing kissing your arm for that first big date with that amazing blond in class but then never having the opportunity to actually kiss her.

“Yuck. You kissed your arm?” THAT he didn’t get it. He would…in about 15 years. (I have a granddaughter to prove it.) I suppose I would have to explain the Cold War another time, maybe embellishing it with a President Regan impression: ”Mr. Gorbachev! Tear down this wall!” But Ben seemed satisfied for the moment. He crunched attentively.

“So this Air Force doctor was a frustrated Marine, I think, because he really wanted to go in after that stone,” I mused. I heard from nephew, Alex, that they don’t leave anyone behind. This was worrisome.

I continued.

“After two days of IV painkillers, I still felt a burning pain…the whole situation was forcing me to believe I was giving birth to a fireball of molten razor blades.” Ben stopped crunching. THAT he understood.

“Then suddenly, on the morning of the third day, my own private resurrection: the pain was gone. I believed that stone had been miraculously rolled away. I was elated!

“I couldn’t wait to tell the doctor. By evening, he arrived, looking rather pensive. When I told him I felt better, that crazy look washed over his face again like hair gel on a bathroom mirror in January.

That’s when those dreadful words oozed from his sadistic lips, ‘If you don’t pass that stone by tomorrow morning, we’re going to have to go in after it.’

There it was again, that bone-chilling phrase: Go in after it. What the heck did that mean? Go in after it.

“Excuse me? What exactly does that mean Dr. Commando?” I asked him. And what did he mean by force?

Presumably, he could only mean some kind of violent Frankensteiniac procedure. He was, after all, a military doctor, probably Special Forces or something. And this was an Army hospital and I was attending a spy school, in California. Maybe this was how they recruited for the CIA.

Now, this was the best part of the story, I told my six-year-old. “Son, you would have been proud of your old man,” I said, puffing up my chest and holding my spoon so he could see the lone Coco puff I had left. His bowl was empty, so I had his complete attention.

“I displayed the same courage any red-blooded American male would when another man threatens his business with a sharp object. With the prospect of a U.S. Marine detachment being deployed to extract my kidney stone, I prayed feverishly all night, and then, at my midnight potty break, standing there draining my bladder, I felt an unusually high sense of urgency, if you catch my meaning. I shrieked in sheer agony as I involuntarily passed the stone right into the center of my strainer.”

At that, I dropped the Coco puff into his empty bowl for effect. It rolled around the rim and was halfway around the bowl before dropping into the center in a small puddle of milk.

Ben’s eyes were focused on the Coco puff. His breathing stopped. I went on…

“The kidney cannonball rolled to a stop in the strainer like a marble in a roulette wheel. I gripped the strainer in one hand and with the other hand I grabbed my IV tree and took off running through the hospital, looking for a medical professional. I was afraid that without documenting the passing of this huge rock with Paul Revere fervor, I’d surely go under the knife the next morning. I was motivated, boy! Even though it was midnight, I scurried down the halls of Fort Ord Army Hospital with my IV leash, telling anyone, and everyone, who would listen that I had passed Gibraltar through my you-know-what and that surgery in the next few hours would not be necessary.”

I waited to see Ben’s response.

He was wide-eyed looking at me, then the bowl. “Daddy! A coco puff came out of your you-know-what?”

I smiled and leaned back, setting the bowl on the table for emphasis. He understood. “In manner of speaking, that’s exactly right, son.”

“But how?”

I thought for moment. I picked up a grapefruit. “Imagine forcing this through a straw.” (Anyone who has given birth to child or kidney stone knows I’m not exaggerating here.)

“Really, Daddy?”

I can’t lie. The story was better than the memory.

“Ok, maybe it didn’t happened exactly like that, but that’s how I remember it.”

“Wow. Wait’ll I tell the guys!”

Perfect. I was a hero.

Fast-forward to present day America and I’ve been telling this same story – and scores of others like it – ever since.

Now when I tell my son (who is currently serving the Air Force in a different war) a story he’s heard before, Ben looks at me, politely amused, and says, “You’ve told me that one before, Dad. Remember?”

I say, “Of course!” but my face says different.

“You should write them down.” His smile was mine, but the words…

“You sound like your mother.”

“How about I bet you 250 bucks you don’t get the manuscript done, say, by the 14th of next month.”

So that’s what this is all about…a bet. I could use the money. Actually, it’s just a collection of stories that my family is apparently tired of hearing and would rather just read for themselves...or not. We all have them. So I’ve written mine down. I need a broader audience and my dear ones need a break from the chatter.

And remember, things may not have happened exactly as memory serves, but that’s what I recall, for the sake of storytelling...what my Dad called a good yarn. There's truth in it but it's more anecdotal that accurate. Just don’t tell my granddaughter yet. I’m such a hero at the moment.

Now.

Wanna hear about my first colonoscopy?

(c) 2006 Tom Kimball