Nothing Says "Merry Christmas" Like a Trip to the ER

Well, That Was Fun—NOT!

Let’s back up a bit.

The day before Christmas, my back started hurting. I wasn’t doing anything heroic or even mildly athletic. I was standing at the kitchen counter peeling apples for apple crisp—hardly an extreme sport—when wham! My left lower back decided it had had enough of holiday cheer and would be checking out early.

Standing upright became a painful suggestion. Sitting or lying down helped, but being vertical was apparently optional now. This put a noticeable damper on the whole “joy to the world” thing.

That evening we went to my daughter’s house and stayed overnight, returning home Christmas Day. And when I say stayed overnight, I use the term loosely. I’m not sure how much actual sleeping happened on my part.

At home, Jim and I have officially joined the ranks of old married people with separate sleeping quarters. Let me be clear: I love Jim. What I do NOT love is how he sleeps.

His nightly routine includes full-body jumps, leg twitching, snoring, farting, and mumbling. Not even useful mumbling. Nothing you can understand and later use for blackmail. Just vague, conversational noises that strongly suggest he’s deeply engaged in negotiations with someone who does not exist.

All of this was present as we shared the one bed in my daughter’s guest room. To make matters worse, Jim is not accustomed to having anyone within arm’s reach, so several times during the night he rolled over and I either got clunked in the head or discovered an elbow in my already unhappy back.

Christmas morning arrived with the back pain still intact and my sleep tank hovering somewhere near empty. That combination tends to make a person mutter “Bah, humbug” with genuine conviction.

The backache stuck around all weekend. I planned to call the doctor Monday morning, but we were hit with a nasty ice storm and probably couldn’t have gotten there anyway.

Then Monday evening things took a turn. I noticed blood in my urine. Well… that’s definitely not in the instruction manual.

So off to the ER we went, sliding carefully through the storm like sensible people who had clearly angered the universe. They did a CT scan. They tested my urine. They poked. They prodded. They looked thoughtful.

And then… nothing.

No kidney stone.
No infection.

But they did give me a shot of Toradol and a muscle relaxant. And let me just say—can I have more of that, please? It didn’t take the pain away entirely, but it was so much better that I briefly considered asking if I could just live there for a while.

Instead, they scratched their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and sent me off into the dark and stormy night with a prescription for Flexeril and instructions to call my doctor's office in the morning for a follow-up.

This morning, I did exactly as instructed. The soonest appointment I can get is ten days from now. Good thing this isn’t an emergency. 

So now I wait. Ten days. Armed with Flexeril, a heating pad, and the knowledge that my body has apparently entered its “surprise malfunction” era. I’m not a pessimist, but a lot could happen between now and then—just sayin'. I mean, entire empires have fallen faster. I’ll hang on, since I don’t have much choice, and hope the Flexeril works whatever quiet miracle it’s capable of.

If nothing else, this whole experience has reminded me of one important holiday lesson:

Christmas miracles might be real.
But apparently, timely medical appointments are not.

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