"Between a Rock and a Good Place"

By Jerry Zezima

With apologies to Mick Jagger, my kidneys have produced more rolling stones than he’s ever had. That’s why I got satisfaction from a radiology report showing that my career as a rock star could mercifully be over.

On orders from my urologist, who must feel like a miner because he has excavated more than half a dozen stones from my kidneys over the years, I had to get X-rays to see if a suspected boulder was about to begin another excruciating rockslide.

To set up an appointment, I called a nearby radiology center and spoke with a very nice staffer named Anna.

“Have you been here before?” she asked pleasantly.

“I’ve been there so many times that I should have my own parking space,” I responded. “I’ve had X-rays, Y-rays, Z-rays, CAT scans, DOG scans, you name it, I’ve had it. I’m surprised I don’t glow in the dark.”

“You could save on your electric bill,” Anna suggested.

“It would help,” I said, “because otherwise, I’m not very bright.”

“What are you coming for this time?” Anna inquired.

“X-rays,” I answered. “My urologist wants to see if I have another kidney stone.”

“How many have you had?” Anna wanted to know.

“So many that I’ve had to number them like the Super Bowl,” I replied. “I’ve lost count, but I think I have had seven or eight.”

“I hear they’re pretty painful,” Anna said.

“When I had my first one, a nurse told me it was the male equivalent of childbirth,” I said. “I told her that at least I wouldn’t have to put the stone through college.”

“How were your kidney stones treated?” Anna asked.

“Not too well,” I said. “They didn’t treat me too well, so why should I be nice to them?”

“No, I mean, did you have surgery?” she wondered.

“Yes, a couple of times I needed the services of Roto-Rooter,” I said. “Some of the other stones were blasted to smithereens and one was like the old phrase: ‘This, too, shall pass.’ Fortunately, it did.”

When Anna asked for my insurance information, she couldn’t put it in the system.

“It’s slow today,” she explained. “So is my brain.”

“Mine is slow every day,” I said. “That is, when it’s working at all. If you took an X-ray of my head, there would be nothing there.”

When Anna finally got the system up and running, she said, “You’re all set. You have an appointment for 11 a.m. today. Good luck! I hope you don’t have any more kidney stones.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I don’t want to take another trip down the rocky road to recovery.”

I showed up at the appointed time and checked in at the front desk with Kristen, who asked why I was there. I told her I needed X-rays and gave her a quick history lesson about my kidney stones.

“Did you have surgery in the area?” Kristen asked.

“You mean at the hospital up the street?” I replied.

“No,” she said with a laugh, “I mean in that area of your body.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thankfully, I didn’t come out sounding like Frankie Valli.”

About five minutes later, a radiologist named Jennifer called me in to the X-ray room.

“Do I need to put on one of those silly paper gowns?” I asked.

“No,” said Jennifer.

“Not even a lead-lined apron?” I wondered.

“How could the X-rays penetrate it?” Jennifer said before going behind a wall and giving me the following instructions: “Deep breath. Exhale and hold it.” She asked me to repeat it. Then I was done.

“You’re good to go,” she said.

That afternoon, the results were in: “No abnormal masses or calcifications.”

In other words, no more stones.

Sorry, Mick Jagger. You’ll just have to rock and roll without me.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima