The world around me continued along its steady frantic pace, but I could only watch from my bed, my body visciously contorting in a veign attempt to relieve the pain felt when you begin to pass a stone that gets stuck on his way down. The past week was, in a word, brutal. I would stand up and feel as though someone were tightly clenching their fist inside my body. I would sit on the toilet and watch blood clots fire out as I urinated. To survive classes, I tentatively walked with a heat pack strapped to my back. To survive during the rest at home, I would take drugs, all those beautiful pain killers that turn energetic twenty-year-olds into floating, heavy-eyed zombies. I slept, then awoke in agony. I endured agony, then I slept.

With each day I gained a little more strength and a little more frustration. I thought of everything I was missing or could potentially be deprived of: Busboy Appreciation Week, the premiere of "Old School", the Switchfoot concert, my ski trip to Canada. I countered with:
1) I can still go to my front door and see "U light up our lives!" written in chalk by the girls of Chi O.
2) It will be in the theatres for several weeks and, later, on DVD.
3) It's not a farewell tour. There will be other performances.
4) The doctor can advise me how he wants, but I'm going on that trip!

My X-rays and consulation with the doctor led to my trip to the outpatient surgery center Friday morning. Everyone who had shared similar situations gave me hope that 24 hours after Dr. Cassisi would lie me atop a bed of water and nuke my kidney asteroid with ultrasound waves, I would feel revitalized and return to a normal life. I woke up Saturday morning, and I immediately tried to stand up. Normal sensation. I walked over to the bathroom. Normal. I did my business there. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal! I was normal again, and it never felt so extraordinary!

My family once again provided me the love and guidance needed in times of pain and frustration, and my mom and grandma drove five hours east on a Thursday afternoon so I would have proper caretakers during my day as an outpatient. A lesson learned from this experience: I more greatly appreciate and cherish my friendships developed in Gainesville. I have friends that will leave their home on a Friday night, drive me to the emergency room, sit in the waiting room until I am properly treated, and drive me home as the sun rises Saturday morning. I have friends that will buy me a Jimmy John's sandwich and stay with me as I eat it back home, making sure my vomit attack has definitely ceased. I have friends that will make me a pie and share a slice at my side. I have friends that will surprise me with a "get well" song on my answering machine. I have friends that will express their admiration for me even during my times of emotionless misery. I owe a dedicated, loyal friendship to all my caretakers, the people who extended an arm when I was desparate to stand.

This experience was terrible. This experience was wondrous. Never again, please. I'm back and just so eager to return to routine.