It’s true. I believe that I have done something very, very wrong in a past life or two. It must have involved kidneys, or urine, or outhouses, or something of the like. I’m not ready go under hypnosis to see if I can call up what type of person I was, but it must have been enough to call into this life in the way of kidney disease and well, now: kidney stones. Mine to be exact.
That is the only (not) reasonable solution to the question: why us? Why the kids, now into three years of the cystic disease diagnosis, have it. Why we’ve learned in the past year that they may have a new cystic disease – yet to be named – that hasn’t been discovered yet. And why perhaps I now have kidney stones.
The stones (Gage wonders why I have rocks in my tummy) have caused a little bit of inconvenience to me. Like a few more doctor visits. I’m good at those. Managing meds. I’m good at that. I must admit I don’t much like being the patient though.
I’m fine with what goes along with the rocks. The appointments, the procedures, the meds, the pain.
What I am not okay with is the look on any one of the 4 doctors when I have asked “does this take me out of the running to donate a kidney to one of my children?” Now those looks are painful. I still have yet to get a straight answer. The one I like the best was “let’s just take this one day at a time.”
I think I’ll go with that one for now.
