Run You Miserable Misbegotten Husband

Run you miserable misbegotten husband of mine.

She didn’t say it but she telegraphed it. To me. Unmistakably.

A four hour turn around at Singapore’s Changi airport and two seasoned travellers should not equate to running the length of the massive Terminal 3 to just make our flight to Barcelona. But there we were.

Well, when I say running, read fast walking. My refusal to run had me labelled as ‘the difficult one’ of our partnership. The other was Miss Vicky, some would say the long suffering half of our marriage.

The gate lounge welcomed us with a flashing CLOSED sign.  “I told you we had to run!”

This was not the time to reveal my secret. This secret was an excellent excuse, as far as excuses go, not to run. I had been holding onto this secret for the past few hours. My secret came with it’s own history. I knew Miss Vicky would not be pleased. However angry she was with me at this moment was mere child’s play to the alternative. Right now was not the time for confessing.

Miss Vicky stared daggers at me then went into what she does best: getting things done. Where others have failed, she got us on the flight. I still don’t know what or how she manages these things.

I understand why Miss Vicky was disappointed at me and my reluctance to break into a gallop to make this flight. This was her flight after all. Long hours worked, many miles travelled in economy so we could use her points to upgrade to these wonderful business class seats. The plush surroundings made the lecture from the flight crew about holding up planes very easy to take; in between sips of bubbly that is.

Calm was settling in. The puffs of steam from Miss Vicky’s ears were now wisps of vapour. Why ruin the moment for her by unburdening my secret. Heavy as it was it was best if I just sat quietly and not spoil Miss Vicky’s mental planning which was going something along these lines: bubbles, dinner, dessert, chick flick with a glass of wine, eight hours of sleeping in a flat bed, a gentle wake up from the flight steward with a hot towel, some breakfast, then arrive in Barcelona refreshed.

Fingers crossed maybe, just maybe, I won’t even have to tell her. It’s only a fourteen hour flight.

Here we go. The engines thrusted, the interior cabin bins began their rattle, acceleration pushed me firm to my set – mmm, smells of satisfying q-u-a-l-i-t-y leather – the nose of the plane lifted, the clunk-a-clunk as the tyres left the tarmac, the arghhhhhh as the kidney stone let loose the fires of hell. Above the roar of the engines Miss Vicky heard my arghhhhh. Secret’s out. This is why I couldn’t run to make this flight.

There were immediate questions to be answered.

Obvious and important questions from Miss Vicky. Why did I ever marry you? Should I have taken the next insurance level up?

Questions from you the reader. What were you doing getting on a plane in the first place if you knew you had a kidney stone attack imminent … you did know, didn’t you.

Yes, yes, I knew. The first signs showed as I was getting off the plane in Singapore (about 4 hours earlier). I had just come from Australia, my home. I know the signs well. I’ve had 4 kidney stone attacks previously. I know that it can all play out differently. I know what twelve long hours of untreated kidney stone pain feels like. This is where I calculated the simple math of the 14 hour flight is only 2 more hours than what I already knew I could handle.

The seatbelt sign went off. Now questions from the cabin crew. Sir, are you alright? That the colour had drained from me and beads of sweat barnacled my face made it pointless giving my standard reply, ‘I’m fine’. I wasn’t.

The concerned cluster of cabin crew leaned in while also professionally maintaining a safe distance from this unpredictable customer. I’m really a nice guy is what I wanted them to know but that was masked by grotesque facial distortions and guttural groans, all part of the kidney stone package. Essentially my message to them was this rarely ends well. As were only twenty five minutes out of Singapore and thirteen hours and thirty five minutes out of Barcelona they might want to make a call on this one.

The cluster of crew grew and re clustered out of ear shot towards the galley. I turned to hear Vicky appropriately dealing with the situation, ‘shit, shit, shit……’

From my now foetal position slunk low in the seat I glanced my carry on bag on the floor. ‘Did I or didn’t I?’ A thought flashed in my mind between the pain stabs.

Earlier in the day, minutes before leaving our house I was doing the old last minute mantra; passport, money, credit cards, drivers licence and there in the draw where I keep my passport was a box of prescription drugs. Let’s just say these pills are known as poor man’s heroin. Now I have to explain myself to you …

My mum – a chronic pain sufferer and prescription pill junkie – who lived with us at home for twenty years died only  twelve months ago. In cleaning out her room I found this box and thought better hang onto those. You never know, one day you might need them. Come on reader, you would have done the same thing.

I thought, we’ll be in Spain and Morrocco for 5 weeks, why not put them in my suitcase. (Yes, yes, I know how much trouble I could have got in. Stop judging me.) My suitcase was in the car already so with little thought, there and then, I dropped the box into my carry on bag.

Was all of this just a hallucination? I scrabbled through the tangle of headphone and electrical carrying leads and adaptors and my fingers touched upon the unmistakable lightness of form of a pill box. A quick shake and I could feel the foil tabs shuffling inside.

It wasn’t morphine or pethidine – the kidney stone sufferer’s only real friend – but it was nectar on my tongue as I swallowed probably too many of these little tablets at once. That was dinner for me and I urged the cabin crew to break from meal service to change my seat to the bed – big shout out to Singapore Airlines for the truly flat beds they have in business class – upon which I lay under a blanket over my body and head like a crash victim waiting to be identified.

An hour crept by at about twenty stabbing pains per minute and then in a glorious moment of release the pills did their thing. No pain. Within a few thoughts I went from grimace to smug smile. I was tripping, nicely, quietly, all by self under the blanket, and there I stayed for a glorious ten hours of relaxing sleep.

That last line is the bit that really rankles Miss Vicky. What was to be a luxury flight for her turned into anxiety overload. Was that lump under the blanket next to her alive or dead? To nudge me to check was a gamble. Did she really want to risk the screaming starting again? While I tripped she kept night watch. She wasn’t happy.

A few hours out of Barcelona I came from the joyous slumber and made the stupid mistake of opening my mouth. Out tumbled the words, ‘what a great sleep’. Should I have noticed Miss Vicky’s red rimmed eyes and drawn face first? Yes.

Our arrival into Spain was a little icy on the marital front. The chill continued.

The automatic doors of Barcelona airport parted as we hit the cold air and warm sun of Spain in March. I felt good. My optimistic side told me the stone had passed. Time to get to know Spain. Little did I know just how well I was to get to know this country for my stone was not alone.

That my friends is the subject of a rather uncomfortable story.