Saturday morning breakfast was rudely interrupted yesterday by a zero dark 30 ambulance ride over to our local hospital. To put it delicately, Heather and I awoke to find that I had produced no "output" through my indwelling Foley catheter overnight. This usually indicates a larger problem and, even if it is something as simple as a kinked line that requires adjustment, failing to address the situation right away can lead to some pretty dire consequences (a year ago I had no idea what autonomic dysreflexia was. Now I wish I didn't).

So we got in touch with the on-call nurse, who came over and met with no greater success than Heather had in dealing with things. At that point the two of them decided to call the urologist with whom I have been consulting. His recommendation was that it was time to go to the hospital and so we did.

The time spent at the ER was mercifully short- just short of seven hours. Much of the time was spent figuring out what was up. I'll gloss over the gory details, and no, they didn't make me drink a can of Drano. Let's just leave it at they decided to replace my catheter tube with a significantly oversize one (you're going to put WHAT WHERE?). My objections went unheeded, though, and shortly I was reminded of one of the few benefits of having a high level cervical spinal cord injury- I really pretty much didn't feel a thing. The clog proved no match for a catheter the size of a garden hose…I should drop the mic right there.

So, my visit to the hospital over, we were back home before three. I got another ride in the new van for the trip back here and it is really wonderful. So much for my plans, though, to get some things written down that I've been wanting to tell everyone for a while now. Instead I'll simply assume your indulgence (Thanks!) and just lie low for another day or so. #NoWhiningZone