Ole Stony
an allegory for healing collective pain
Sorry I’m late. I usually get this ‘sletter out on a Thursday, but…
This week, a rude and decidedly un-invited guest came to dinner. Actually, he showed up as I was preparing dinner last Sunday. Family Time.
He made his presence known in my gut. Forcing me to double over in unexplainable fashion. Made me question what I’d eaten, what I’d done, not done and how I’d gotten myself into this situation. More importantly, how could I get out of it.
This was pseudo labor pain and there ain’t (but) a (very slim) chance in hell of another bun in my oven.
Call 911.
What I will say is that all my frustration and satire about US hospitals and doctors has been (nearly) blown out of the water. I had some of the best and kindest care, efficient and considerate and available. Well, the only hiccups were the INSURANCE. So, let me be clear where I lay blame. Yep, it’s insurance. That moment when you’re standing - or flopped over in a wheelchair - in front of an admissions desk groaning and gasping in pain as they ask questions to determine if they can care for you…
By some stroke of luck, I was cleared for care. It remains to be seen if I need to remortgage the house to pay for 4 days of care.
The great mystery?
The uninvited, rude and disruptive guest?
Ole Stony.
A 4mm (1/8” in old money) kidney stone, lodged in my ureter.
When was the last time - if ever - you’ve said that word?
URETER.
URĒTER.
Potāto, Potáto.
Certainly not at the dinner table, ABBY. Ew.
Well, I’ve said it ten times a day this week. Ole Stony caused a heckuva stir, lodged as he was after traveling painfully from my kidney on the seemingly 8 hour plus1 journey to my bladder only to be held at the border for interrogation. We barely got to talk about the URETHRA. Or the size constraints. Or His vs. Hers. All GREAT fodder for wincin’, duckin’ and divin’ the gory possible conversations around our internal plumbing. Why is it grosser to talk about our peeing and pooping systems than it is to discuss the gunk that clogs our kitchen sinks, gutters and HVACs? We can talk over the back fence about gaskets, rodents, mold, rising damp (for my UK friends) but mention the word URETER and eyes, well, they do wander. Whisper constipation and The Kids Hit The Deck. End of Conversation, Neighbs.
Suffice it to say, I didn’t bring it up in our Neighborhood Facebook Group. Bigger fish to fry with the pending local park suggesting a path via an easement at the end of my road that would allow any ole’ park-goers to enter our private streets.
As I lay in bed for the better part of four days, I circled in my mind about whether to write and what to write this week.
The only thing that came to mind was Stone Soup.
For those that don’t know it - could there be anyone out there? “Stone Soup” was read to me at elementary school in America and I then read it for my own children growing up in France. We had the version with the French solders arriving within a peasant village in Northern France. I’m now aware that there have been many, many iterations dating back to 1732, 1808 and more2.
The folklore surrounding the tale of Stone Soup revolves around a crafty man - or group of men - skilled in the art of persuasion. He manages to get people to help him even when their instinct is not to…
The first telling of the Stone Soup story that has been able to located is by a French woman, Madame de Noyer (1663–1719), a female journalist, a woman of letters and a dynamic personality who lived what can only be described as an interesting life. She seems to have been a woman who burned the candle at both ends. She lived in exile from France for the last part of her life, dying in Holland.
In this visiting soldiers version, they tell the villagers that they are not beggars, but in fact, they have a stone (or 3) that will make soup.
“They tell the children that all they actually need is fire, a pot, and some water, and that their stone will do the rest.”
Somehow the fascination with the visitors, the promises and the entertainment are enough to convince Villagers - young and old - that the Stone Soup is good… but even better as they each add something to the bubbling water…
‘Perhaps a few herbs would be nice…’
‘Bit o’ cabbage wouldn’t go amiss…’
‘Why not grab some carrots…’
Before long, the villagers are no longer thinking about their troubles, nor these random stranger-soldiers amongst them. They are stirring and tasting soup together. Lapping it up.
The soldiers have tricked (yet) a(nother) village to play their game.
They live to fight another day.
I’m all for a group meal, breaking bread together, sharing recipes and tasting the goods. However, as my mind does, it couldn’t help but wander to the villagers of Los Angeles this week and whether my Stone Soup allegory has a role to play.
I think in many ways we are long past sharing soup together - it’s gonna take some mighty magical stones. Though I imagine a few of those Californian National Guarders woulda dearly loved a meal…
The Meat & Bones of It
As often happens from meal to meal, events change and conversations shift but themes continue to pop up. In the span of this past week, stones, and the passing of them, the throwing of them and discussion of cooking with them has evolved, to say the least.
As we wrap up this meal (with no visit to the Hūset Loo this week, as I really have seen NOTHING pretty, nor worthwhile, nor appetizing to share), I want to steer our conversation to the caring and clever doctors and physician’s assistants and nurses and lab techs and receptionists and other poker and prodders who had my best interest this week.
However, here is what ran through my mind, as I sat in Observation.
Where’s The Beef?
Can I get an Apple?
After 12 hours, I was absolutely STARVING, with nothing more than a weary drip bag for a friend. Once I was finally cleared by the E.R. Docs, the Gastro Docs and the Uro Docs, I literally had to beg for food and water.
‘Oh, do you need some ice water?’
‘Um, any water that is drinkable would be fine, but this (styrofoam cup with) chlorine flavored ice water (through a plastic straw) is making me ill.
‘Oh, yah, that water is awful.’
Yet EVERYONE looking after me offered the same (awful) water.
Vending machine down the hall?
No water. Just soda.
‘Hmm. How about some grub?"‘
At long last, breakfast (11am) is served.
Nary a stone, nor a natural element in sight.
There we have it, a team of lovely, smart, motivated people, working in my best health interests: monitoring my vitals every 2 hours, drawing my blood and trying their best to dispense pills to heal me outta my gastroenterological woes.
All I could think about about was how well I was fed in the hospitals of France and England. Ok, especially France. Those trays would arrive lovingly in the morning with a Bowl (yes bowl!) full of Coffee or Hot Chocolate - or both if I wished. A bowl of fresh, seasonal fruit, washed and cut by hand and a plate full of viennoiserie (pastries)… pain au chocolat, croissant, butter & multiple jams. Yoghurt, without a doubt. Glass of water and side carafe full of more water. Oh, and warm cutlery just washed and wrapped in a napkin. I’m actually not kidding. These were not Michelin Hospitals I was birthing my children in… just your standard hospitals for everyone who needs care.
Not ONE of these people that looked after me thought it might help me to eat a decent meal. Nor did they bat an eye at the plasto-chemical-solution handed me.
So, yes, I’m grateful to the care and to the clever people who sleuthed away to figure out the causes of my pain.
So, yes, I’m trembling over the insurance outcome.
And, the mind continues to boggle over the total lack of comprehension by the American Health Care System (I visited 3 hospitals across 2 networks in a week) over the healing power of real food, simply made.
I got home and made a beeline for an apple.
Call me Johnny Appleseed. I’ve never felt more nourished, nor ready to plant seeds.
Stay tuned for the next few weeks as I share my European adventures…
Thanks for stickin’ with me.
No stones allowed.
ABBY
*no further pain records kept after nuclear strength opioids hit the system
Abby poor you. So glad you were received with kindness and care by medical staff. And food in hospitals! I just don’t understand why they can’t get this right!!
I guess so many of the individuals spending time in hospital would consider the additive/sugar rich offerings to be more palatable than a bowl of chopped salads or fruits which they can’t identify!