Yesterday, I said I’d write about my second surgery, the one last Friday to use sound waves to turn a growing kidney stone into the sand before it left on its own, a painful trek for most people.

The surgery went well; it was successful, as was the first. I am grateful for that. Today is the first day I can say that I feel close to normal.

Maria and I learned a lot from my two surgeries (the big toe was amputated a month earlier).

I am still in recovery, although getting stronger by the day, and my kidneys, bladder, colon, and diabetes are calming down.  I’m driving and gardening and walking.

I signed in when we arrived at the hospital surgery center early last Friday. The co-pay was $370, collected at sign-in.

I was taken to a pre-surgical room, where I undressed and was given a surgical robe. I could keep my socks on but nothing else. It was dehumanizing but understandable.

I had to leave my wedding ring and spider necklace at home. A steady stream of nurses came into the room, checking my blood pressure and blood sugar and inserting an IV in my arm for anesthesia.

My doctor showed up to put an X on my left side to ensure they didn’t sound blast the wrong side—lots of needles, checks, questions on allergies, etc.

Recovery might take a day, a week, or a month. I’m guessing two weeks. I have diabetes, but my doctors also tell me I heal well and quickly. The anesthesiologists seem the most nervous. They ask questions about my medicines, habits, and breathing.

Maria could stay with me until I went to the OR. We kissed and held hands.

I said goodbye, just in case.

After about 30 minutes, I was wheeled into the operating room, which was brightly lit and occupied by a dozen people.

They slid me over to an operating table and started the IV without saying anything. The next thing I remembered was being wheeled out of the operating room.

A nurse had called Maria, who was in the waiting room, and she was with me almost instantly.

This shift from one reality to the other was disorienting. I remember absolutely nothing about the procedure itself.

Maria helped me get dressed in my regular clothes. I was put into a wheelchair and taken down to the front of the surgery center, where Maria and I could walk to the car. They seemed eager to get me moving and out of the hospital.  I felt no pain.

Before the night, Maria was visibly alarmed at the pain I was feeling, the discomfort, and the loss of control of my bladder. I had sharp pains on the side where the sound waves were focused. They prescribed painkillers, but I would only take Ibupropen; I didn’t need any others.

Maria is strong but also sensitive and prone to anxiety, as I am. She doesn’t like it when I am sick.  The surgery triggered our old fears, namely concerns about decline and death.

The nurses say this is normal, even inevitable, and should not be a concern. The doctors have little or nothing to say about it.

Here are some of the things I learned.

First, there is no “minor surgery,” as both the amputation and the kidney stone surgery were described.

All surgery is disruptive, potentially dangerous, and has two distinctly different phases: the operation itself and the aftermath and side effects, which some never really end up being fully or clearly explained, or at least understood by Maria and me.

The big surprise was the emotional impact this all had on Maria and me, two creative and independent people who work hard and as they please, not after surgery. We are thrown together day and night, and one of us – me – is helpless for at least a few days and perhaps longer.

The most intimate parts of my body were suddenly dysfunctional and useless, and for days, she really couldn’t be away from me or out of sight and touch.

On Monday, I was alarmed enough about what was happening to call the emergency nurse’s number.

She consulted a doctor, and we reviewed the symptoms, and both decided they were unfortunate but not dangerous. Suck it up, prescribed nicely.

One suggested warm prune juice – 4 oz – every six hours. She also advised me that the bowels and the bladder work together; one can make the other feel off.

I felt as if I had to go to the bathroom every second. I did for a day or two, and then I didn’t.

Neither of us wants this kind of pinned-down and dependent life; it turns us into edgy, fearful, and irritable people.

I believe it is essential to experience, especially when you are pretty confident you will recover. We discussed what we wanted for the future while it was fresh in our minds and ongoing.

In that sense, it was a gift. Most people never talk about the future until they are drowning in it.

I hate to be dependent on anyone, especially Maria, and she hates being closeted into a caretaker’s life without her work.

I think it’s fair to say that was the most challenging part for both of us.

Watching someone you love suffer and be helpless to do anything about it is not fun.

I always feel responsible for my life, but surgeries tell another story. So does extreme age.

Surgery is humbling at any age, but especially when you are older. When I am helpless, I must surrender to reality and let someone help me.

I also felt ancient, ashamed, and grotesque.

I was a bedwetter until I was 17. Those are not pleasant memories.I never expected to be experiencing that at 75. Yet is is common among some elderly people.

I lost control of my bladder and all of the functions of elimination. I felt degraded and asexual.

I could almost hear my father’s voice scolding me and advising me to be a man and be strong.

The kidney and the bladder worked overtime to discharge the thousands of micro-kidney stones the surgery’s sound waves created.

This is far less pain than anyone feels when a single unbroken-up kidney stone exists in the body.

But it was painful at times and still hurts almost every time I go to the bathroom, which was constant at first and less so now.

I am sleeping better, which is to say, I am sleeping at all.

This surgery was not invasive, at least not directly.

There was no incision, instruction, or bleeding; the procedure was a miracle of modern medicine. There is no magic for recovery.

Nobody much wanted to talk about what would happen when I got home.

After my toe surgery, I had to ask a friend to come to the farm and help carry me inside. I couldn’t use my left leg at all.

Maybe climb the porch stairs on your butt, said one nurse, and pull yourself up the stairs backward.

The medical core – the surgery itself – was carried out wonderfully, efficiently, compassionately, and quickly. They’ve got that down.

We got to the Saratoga Hospital surgery center at 8:30 a.m. and went to lunch on the way home at noon.

Even localized anesthesia has side effects – severe constipation, stomach upset, nausea, excessive gas, and what the doctors call “urgent” urination. I had them all.

I need to say to be careful of the stories and advice people love to share on social media when there is a health issue.

Some of the advice is great and helpful. Still, the many stories about what happened to Uncle Harry are not, and neither are the numerous warnings, home remedies, and hometown prognostication.

If you are active online, there is no escaping this.

I have learned not to take medical advice from anyone who is not professionally trained and who does not get paid for their advice or diagnosis.

Real doctors don’t speculate or diagnose strangers on social media.

Nice notes of encouragement and support are always lovely. There are always lunatics out there.

When I woke up, I was given a kit with a plastic jar, a sifter, and a small plastic bottle to collect the bits of kidney stone that would come through my bladder and out my penis (there, I’ve said it)  if the operation was successful, which the doctors assured me it was.

This request was impossible to fulfill; I was spilling urine and was stymied on how to transfer it to the small jar from the sifter.

I never did figure that out (I did make one effort to do it that I don’t need to discuss here, and I abandoned this absurd request after the first night).

I never needed the painkillers.

The following day, I began urgent urinating that did not stop for nearly 24 hours.

The urinating was so urgent and intensive, and I couldn’t imagine where all of it was coming from. The bathroom seemed very far away.

But it didn’t stop for nearly two days, and I finally abandoned my clothes for sweatpants and a T-shirt I changed several times a day.

My clothes were always in the wash or on the line. I am obsessive about being clean; this condition had me crazy.

Maria was vigilant, sympathetic, understanding, helpful, and comforting.

I can’t imagine getting through all that without her, and I didn’t want to. I got little sleep and felt shamed and disgusting in a way I can’t remember ever since I was a bedwetter. The washing machine was in overdrive.

The experience was as rough on Maria. Watching someone you love suffer and be helpless to do anything about it is not fun. We talked a lot about caretaking and the limits of what we wanted each other to do and need. She is a lot more sensitive than I am.

I should caution the people reading this that the doctors were telling the truth: everyone is different, and no one’s experience indicates another’s experience. When people tell me of their medical sorrows, troubles, and predictions, they think we are all in the same boat, doing the same thing.

That is not true. We are all unique; our bodies and experiences are exceptional. We can’t expect to know how our bodies will respond to trauma, even when it is mild.

Some things are essential to remember. There is an emotional kickback to any surgery done in a hospital. I will expect that in the future and talk about it and think about how I want to handle it. That means being better prepared than I was for either surgery.

The best sources of reliable data and guidance are the nurses, as always. Few doctors are easy talkers; most are preoccupied with a successful procedure, and the patient’s emotional issues are somebody else’s problem.

They are not counselors or hand-holders.

The next time, I will see if I can’t hire some day nurses to get me through the worst and permit Maria to be nearby but to do her work and not be so wholly trapped. Insurance often covers that, at least for a short time. It’s something people in my position need to think about. I don’t expect her to be my caretaker, and I don’t want it.

Again, everyone is different. Many parents expect their children to care for them to the end. Many children want to do it.

Many partners and spouses believe it is their duty. I think differently.

This was an excellent dry run and a glimpse into the possible future. We will be talking about it.

Bowels and organs will often be in shock and not behave in the ways they have every day of your life.

Then, the fog lifts. This is happening to me today. It’s ending. I feel almost like myself.

I can feel my strength returning, my mental clarity.

Maria senses I am much better, so she is beginning to relax and is back at work. She took terrific care of me.

Spouses know when it’s wrong and when it’s better. I sometimes forget how frightening it must be to her to see me get older and need medical help. We’re not gloomy about it, but it’s a cloud on the horizon.

I am happy to end this piece on a good note. I am not urgently wanting to urinate all day; I can make it to the bathroom without wetting myself, my bowels are acting more naturally, and the occasional sharp pain in my side (yes, from sound saves) is receding.

My blood sugar numbers returning to normal; they always get wild after surgery, and I am resuming everyday life.

We even went out to dinner last night, something we’re going to do at least once a week, just like we used to..

And we look forward to our two-day anniversary celebration in Vermont in June. We need it.

I hope this is useful. I trimmed a lot out of it.

I don’t often write about my private parts and peeing, but I think it can be helpful, both for you and me. I know it makes me feel better.

I may have left things out, but I think and got the main points while they are still fresh in my head.