Kidneys

March 12, 2014

Four short days later I stubbornly faced my fear head on and underwent a kidney biopsy. I was awake for the procedure, though I wrestled in my mind if I would have preferred to have been asleep, as both options completely terrified me. As I lied on the cool table covered in royal blue cloths, I felt a cool liquid sweep across my side. I knew I was being prepped. I could smell the Betadine. I looked to my left and noted several large needles filled with medicine. I watched as Dr. Hansson selected one at a time. I knew these were to help dull the pain. I felt the large needle slowly enter my side. I didn’t budge. I was more concerned with what she would find. I hoped she would pick a good spot, a spot perhaps where my kidneys were properly functioning. I hoped she would see that she was wrong, and all was well. I didn’t feel like my kidneys weren’t working. I knew she was wrong. I knew Dr. Arnold was wrong. At least I tried to tell myself they were. Though, the growing number of doctors in agreement seemed to be mounting which did not bode well for my security.

I suddenly heard what sounded like a hole puncher being punched and simultaneously felt a jolt in my side. I knew she had gone in for the biopsy. I watched as she placed a pink chunk into a small fluid filled container. I knew that was part of my kidney. My flank felt cool. I figured it was blood. I was admitted to the hospital for the night for “observation”, given the risk of severe bleeding following the biopsy. I hoped I would clot soon. I hoped I wasn’t bleeding too much.

I did my best not to move. Unfortunately upon arrival to the unit we learned the only available bed was “broken”. Its only position was 180 degrees flat. I found myself irritated as my mom feverishly tried to prop the two pillows we had been given into a position to help me sit somewhat upright. By that time the numbing medication had started to wear off, and my side had begun to ache. I lifted the cover of my breakfast tray to distract my mounting crankiness. The eggs were cold. I took in a deep breath and told myself I only had to get through this one day and then I could go home.

A few moments later a male nurse with grey scrubs and tattoos covering his left arm entered my room with a smile. He informed me that if I needed to use the bathroom I would need to use a bedpan and to ring for help. I heard a faint mumble and peaked behind the curtain to the other half of my room. I noted an elderly woman making noises to herself. My stomach turned as I realized I was not alone in the room. I stiffened at the thought of using a bedpan.

A few hours passed and I began to smell a foul smell coming from the other side of the room. I knew the elderly woman had soiled herself. The odor permeated my nose and I turned myself in bed to face away. We waited for a nurse to come. It felt like hours. I became angry, noting my own sense to urinate. I slowly made my way out of bed and to the bathroom. I refused to use the bedpan. After all, I had not undergone surgery. It was a biopsy. I felt it would be fine. My mom glared at me from the foot of the bed in disapproval. I needed to move. I made my way to the bathroom and back with great caution. It felt good to move. It felt good to take control. Even if it was just over my ability to urinate on my own terms. I sat back in bed and took a deep breath in, feeling a small amount of stress fade away.

The following morning I opened my eyes to see Dr.  Hansson sitting at the foot of my bed. I was surprised to see her and didn’t think I would see her again until we had scheduled a follow up in her office. I liked that she sat on the bed with me. It made me feel safe. It made me feel like I could trust her. She wore her purse across her chest as she always had and I felt myself inwardly smile. She told me we would have to wait for the pathology results of the biopsy to return over the next week. It didn’t surprise us. She told me we could go home.

Over the next week we did our best not to focus on the impending news. I found myself still trying to “will” my kidneys to work, as ridiculous as I knew it was. I couldn’t help but hope.