Kiko has always been a “daddy’s girl.” The kind of cat who’s content — nay, delighted — to sit on my Handsome Assistant’s lap for hours at a time, gazing up at him with an expression that could only be called “worshipful.”

Don’t get me wrong, she loves taking small naps on me. But if he’s available, it becomes much more, “This is my daddy’s house. That idiot lives here too.”

So on Thursday, when she ignored him to come snooze on my stomach and gently headbutt my face, I was surprised.

“Am I dying?” I joked.
“Don’t say that. You know she loves you,” he replied.

Anyhow, 10:00 Friday morning. I woke up with a nagging backache of a kind I have uneasily come to associate with pyelonephritis. Even though I hadn’t had any urinary symptoms beyond the “maybe I should have a glass of cranberry juice about this, just in case,” kind, I was somehow progressing into the worst pain of my life. I tried taking a hot bath, just in case it was a muscle or joint thing. When I was in danger of passing out and drowning, I crawled to my Handsome Assistant’s office door and pounded on it.

“Is everything o-“
“_help“

No position was comfortable, or even marginally less agonizing, so I kind of did the worm on the floor for a while as he looked things up, asked me questions, and decided it was time for a ride in the Wee-woo Wagon.

Ten minutes after that, I was loaded in the back of an ambulance and shot full of fentanyl and Zofran.

“Is it helping?” One of the paramedics asked.
“It’s… I still feel pain. But in a way that’s hard to care about,” I replied.
“Yeah, it does that. I have some other stuff that’s more dissociative.”

I don’t remember what I said after that. I’m pretty sure it was something akin to that everyone in the ambulance was now my friend except for this one light that was kind of strobing in a way that I Did Not Appreciate.

It being early January, every ER was swamped. (Also, contrary to popular belief, arriving in an ambulance does not get you seen faster than if you walk in the door. You get triaged just like everyone else no matter how you get there.) Fortunately, the ambulance guys had started an IV so I was able to get some more medication for nausea and pain while I had to wait. Also, because I compulsively apologize when I’m afraid or in pain, I did that to pretty much everyone I came in contact with. If my mind couldn’t find a reason to apologize, I just said “Thank you” over and over instead.

Everyone was very nice and extremely helpful. I briefly talked to a teledoc when they were initially triaging me, so they could order some pain meds and initial testing (a CT scan, some bloodwork, and a urinalysis) while I had to wait for a room. My Handsome Assistant handsomely assisted me by occasionally asking how things were progressing, if I could have some water or ice chips, and so on. One of the nurses noticed he called me “they,” so she asked what my pronouns were just to make sure.

“Honestly, I do prefer ‘them.’ But I’m in the ER, you could call me Donald Duck and I’m really not gonna worry about it,” I explained, around a mouthful of ice chips.

There were ultrasounds. An offer of morphine. Ultimately, it looks like it’s a urinary thing of some kind, and my immediate future looks like a whole lotta antibiotics, phenazopyridine, and heating pad time.

Hat tip to everyone in the ER, though. The doctors were thorough, the nurses were very chill and understanding, and the imaging technicians/various -ologists did a lot to help put me at ease. I feel like I’ve been dragged over several miles of gravel road, but I’m probably going to be fine.

But anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that, should you feel a deep, continuous ache in your lower back, and stretching, massage, etc. don’t seem to help, get thee to a doctor instanter. Don’t wait. Not only can it be very dangerous, but it also hurts super badly the entire time.