Eight a day

Taped to the wall, next to my computer, is a piece of paper labeled "water." On it are the dates for the past three days followed by tick marks for glasses of water consumed on each. The goal, as any kid who's taken a fifth grade health class knows, is eight a day.

Before last November, I never paid attention to that. Then came that night of horrific pain across the lower back and abdomen, the day after spent in the hospital emergency room, the IV drugs, the trip down the MRI tunnel and the diagnosis of kidney stones.

That one passed and I stopped keeping track. Of the water, that is. Gradually, I lapsed back into the state of apathy where I've mostly been since a back injury ended much of what had once kept me active and engaged in life.

And that went on until last weekend, when we were at the restaurant celebrating my youngest kid's 21st birthday. That afternoon there'd been a slight twinge in my lower back, just above the left hip bone. A little later, another twinge around my left side. Then one closer to the front.

Finally, seated in the restaurant, a feeling of urgency in the lower pelvic region, almost like the urinary tract infections I've had a couple times in the past. Then, a trip to the bathroom and, despite the urgency, very little volume. Not a good sign.

Then I glance down and notice the plumes of crimson rising in the water. Still in denial, still not ready for the truth, I wonder: was that from me or the guy before me? Twenty minutes later, another trip to the bathroom. This time I enter a stall and flush before using, so there'll be no mistake. Sooner or later, you decide that you've gotta know. Minutes later, I know. There's no mistake.

It's Sunday evening, so I talk to the on-call physician from my doctor's office. She notices that I'm scheduled for a physical in two days and suggests that I call the office and move it up a day. And that I drink lots of water.

Ironically, my appointment is a year from the very day, last spring, when I canceled my back surgery to go home and care for my ailing and elderly father. The next day, I call the office and get a late morning appointment.

In the examining room, the doc says, "Yeah, I saw your wife when I was doing rounds this morning and she told me what was going on. These are classic symptoms. When this one passes, bring it in so we can figure out what it's made of. And drink lots of water."

During the physical, he palpates the abdomen.

"Good abs," he says. "What do you do for exercise?"

"Nada," I say, "Nothing since I effed up my back."

"Well, that's obviously the limiting factor in your life, right now," he says. "You need to call the back guy and reschedule your surgery. In the meantime, drink plenty of water."

That night, I call my dad. The week before, he'd gotten a little confrontational with the medical staff at the assisted living facility and then, for good measure, followed-up in similar fashion with the social worker and his own physician.

"You can't let these people run your life," he says. "I've been running my own life for 93 years, so I think I know a little something about it," he says.

"Yours and everyone else's," I'm thinking.

However, he's been to see his doctor that day and everyone is happy again. I don't mention my own visit to the doctor. He decides the conversation is over so we're saying our goodbyes.

"You know what the secret is?" he says.

"What's that, Dad?"

"I drink lots of water," he says, and hangs up.