That time I got kidney stones
repeat after me: Dr. Pepper is not a substitute for water
Welcome to Congrats, You Played Yourself: a newsletter making fun of me, and sometimes you, for all the stupid mistakes we’ve made and what we learned from them.
Got a stupid story you’re willing to share? Please do. Email me at juliajeankennedy@gmail.com and let’s reminisce together.
Welcome to my twenties in LA: attempting to channel Beyoncé levels of hustle while eating all the pizza and drinking none of the water and occasionally getting lucky with a few hours of sleep.
This winning combo only works until it doesn’t. I learned that lesson a couple times this last year with a few health scares — including, but not limited to, my currently bum knee — that almost turned into an emergency room visit. The best part? It was due to a repeat offense against one of the power lifters of our body: our glorious kidneys.
First up: my often heard and joked about subconscious vendetta against drinking water. It’s sabotaged me in the past, I’m afraid to admit, more than a few times.
My first physical run in with dehydration happened at a fun and early age. I, an acclaimed and well-known Horse Girl, attended Flying Horseshoe Camp over the summers when I was 7-9. A week of horsey debauchery was promised: I imagined myself riding through the hills, guiding my steed with the confident ease of Annie Oakley, bringing all my Pony Pals books to life. Maybe we’d chase down a rabbit or two. Would a young cowboy ask me to do-se-do at the week-end dance?!
You’re an idiot
Instead, I spent the first day in the infirmary, having passed out mid-walk in the Eastern Washington heat with no mom around to force water down my throat (lovingly, of course).
It was my first test of taking care of myself in the real world and I had gloriously failed. But it wasn’t enough to deter my dreams — after a quick rest and a ridiculously refreshing snack of frozen grapes, I was back outside, ready to terrorize the campground with my newest compadre, Buster. I made it the rest of the week without anymore surprise unconsciousness parties, and any time spent off my horse was dedicated to creating a riveting lip-sync performance of Lady Marmalade along with my bunk mates, with which we handily won that summer’s talent show.
I’d like to say I have spent the rest of my life famously hydrated and preaching the benefits of drinking water; alas, my journey has been peppered with quite a few more stories like that. To name a couple of the colorful and diverse places I’ve fainted due to dehydration:
The deli section of a Safeway; shoutout to the produce dude who saw me sitting on the floor and recognized I likely wasn’t getting up anytime soon
Bend, OR, when checking kids in for soccer camp while interning for the Portland Timbers; had to spend the next day inside my hotel room where I ended up watching a marathon of the cancelled-too-soon Gallery Girls
I’ve met a lot of really nice people, luckily.
Other than the embarrassing and slightly disorienting nature of it, dealing with fainting is pretty doable. You really just need rest, electrolytes, and a shit ton of water. But the compounding factor of repeated dehydration and stress on the body was likely to catch up to me, and it did.
The first time I got kidney stones was winter of 2012. I noticed a crazy growing pain in my lower back, and figured it was my lack of gym time and deteriorating muscles that were the cause for concern. I went to bed early and ignored it as something larger.
*At my ultrasound to see if there were any kidney stones left still partying inside me.
The next night, the pain was back, and was so debilitating I couldn’t get off of the bathroom floor. Around 3am, I painfully — and begrudgingly — admitted defeat and called for help. Seven hours of waiting in an ER later, pain subsided and my fury increased, I was finally seen by a doctor who told me I had been likely passing kidney stones. Considering this a pretty loud wake up call, I resolved to make water my bitch.
Then, this last spring of 2019 (miss you), I found myself back in an urgent care with a similar but slightly worse diagnosis: a kidney infection. My roommate — god bless her heart — was unwilling to see me attempt to tough out what I already knew was happening, bouncing between chills and extreme heat, willing myself to suffer through the pain that I knew was brought on by none other than poor self-care on my part, and brought me to see actual medical help.
Time flies when you’re ignoring your body’s cries for help!
I’m a flawed human who’s got a lot to learn, but even this lesson shouldn’t have taken so long: Self-care isn’t selfish. It’s survival. It isn’t face masks or foot massages or those eerie fish foot baths although those all sound fun (except the fish thing, that’s gonna be a no from me dawg). It’s taking literal care of your self, with the obvious like drinking water (@ me) and eating vegetables (probably don’t always have to be on a burger), and getting your ass out the door for a slow run or a fast walk or a bike ride or a basketball game or a swoll sesh or a handstand or a dance party or a @shaunt Hip Hop Abs session.
It’s also going to bed early or saying no to plans with friends just so you can go home and rewatch that episode of The Office for the 27th time. It’s putting the phone down to give your eyes and your mental sanity a break. It’s figuring out what helps you decompress and recharge and feel like a bad-ass human again so that you can go crush life like Beyoncé or at least try to. How can you fill somebody else’s cup of Dr Pepper if you don’t have any Dr Pepper left?
I mean water. Definitely water. Let’s take care of ourselves, friends.