We are fortunate to have excellent health care in Saranac Lake, but that doesn’t mean our medical services are infallible. A couple of weeks ago the system broke down and I was the victim.

So what happened?

I woke up in the middle of the night with a deep, stabbing pain in the lower left-side of my back, the kind that gradually brings you to full consciousness. At first it hovered around a six out of 10 — bad enough to make it impossible to lie still but still leaving room for it to get worse. In those first minutes, I had a strong suspicion about what was going on, and as the pain kept building in steady, merciless waves, that suspicion turned into certainty: A kidney stone. By around 4 a.m., after a few hours of trying to ride it out, I finally woke Phyliss and told her we needed to go to the emergency room.

The ER folks were great. They got me in right away. It wasn’t long before I had a CAT scan and they determined that I had a 3mm stone that would pass on its own. They hooked me up to an IV and I got a dose of morphine. According to the ER doc, the only pain that truly compares to a kidney stone is childbirth. I’ll take her word for it — I have no interest in experiencing the latter, and just hoped the stone made a quick exit.

In no time the pain was gone … or at least as gone as it can be when you’re passing a kidney stone.

An hour or so later, I was discharged with a prescription for oxycodone and instructions to make a follow-up appointment with my primary care physician and my urologist. There was only one problem. I was discharged around 6:30 a.m., but the drug store didn’t open until 8:30. The morphine wore off and the next two hours were among the longest of my life.

Phyliss was my runner, and as soon as Kinney’s opened, she was there to pick up my prescription. By 9 a.m. I was floating in Pain Killer Land. The oxycodone relieved the pain considerably but made me woozy and put me to sleep. Fair exchange is no robbery.

The urologist’s office followed up within 24 hours, made an appointment and encouraged me to pick up a strainer to try to capture the stone. The next morning, Phyliss picked up the strainer. By 7 a.m. of the third day, I still hadn’t passed the stone, and I was going to run out of oxycodone.

I called my primary care doctor’s office to let them know I’d be running out of pain meds later that day. I asked if they could refill the prescription. The receptionist told me my doctor was out of town but assured me a message would be passed along to the nurse. Not wanting to take any chances, I also called my urologist’s office and explained my situation.

Then I waited …

A couple of hours went by with no return call from either office. As the minutes stretched on, the pain began to creep back in, slowly building in intensity. I called both offices again, hoping this time someone would respond. Still no luck. By the time I called the urologist’s office for the third time, my pain had climbed back into the eight or nine range, and my frustration rose along with it. My voice shook as I tried to stay calm — tired, hurting, angry and, honestly, on the verge of tears. Once again, I explained the situation, hoping someone would understand the urgency.

The only suggestion I was offered was to go back to the emergency room.

With the pain climbing Phyliss drove me back to the hospital. Again, the folks at the ER were great. They got me in reasonably quickly and gave me a dose of morphine. The doc was understanding and compassionate, and clearly frustrated that the system had failed me. He set me up with another prescription of oxycodone.

What’s the lesson here?

I’m a reasonably smart guy who understands we have to be our own best advocate. I tried to do the right thing but couldn’t get my issue cared for without going back to the emergency room.

What happens to those who don’t advocate for themselves, who trust the system, who live alone, and who don’t have transportation?

We have to do better.

There’s an appropriate French expression: “Guérir quelquefois, soulager souvent, consoler toujours.” Which translates to: “To cure sometimes, to relieve often, to comfort always.”

(In fact, it’s engraved on Dr. Edward Livingston Trudeau’s gravestone. Trudeau, of course, was the man who turned Saranac Lake into the world’s foremost health care center for the treatment and research of tuberculosis.)