Picture this: It was Friday at the witching hour, and yours truly was the sole soul awake, pacing like a caged tiger in my living room. Every two minutes, I’d dash to the bathroom, convinced that a UTI was waging war inside me. By the time the sun timidly peeked over the horizon, I headed to urgent care, only to be flabbergasted when my urine test revealed zilch. Yep, nada.

The PA, with a somewhat disconcerting calmness, advised that if my symptoms escalated, I’d need to haul myself to the emergency room for a CT scan. These wise words would soon prove prophetic.

Hours later, as if on cue, my body began a symphony of pain. My right flank suddenly felt as if it was caught in a bar fight, pummeling me with relentless force. This was no ordinary pain – it was medieval torture. I pleaded with my significant other to muster our sleeping children and whisk me away to the ER.

After what felt like an eternity of pacing, multiple CT scans, and bloodwork, the verdict was in: a kidney stone. A teeny-tiny invader causing a tsunami of suffering. The nurses at the ER exchanged knowing glances and divulged the shocking truth: