Alert level kidney tea
Kidney stories are so interesting. On the one hand, they're usually connected to very specific events, like a wet bikini after the cool Mediterranean in October, a fresh breeze on the beach, and the childish refusal to put on dry clothes. On the other hand, the expression that something gets to people's kidneys isn't accidental. For me, for example, all it takes is something major going wrong for a while while I diligently pretend nothing's wrong, and at some point, aided by the wet bikini, my kidneys reliably print me a receipt that reads: "Are you actually feeling anything?"
When I was handed a clearly legible bill for the previous months at the beginning of the year—a 40-degree fever, chills, back pain—I was outraged. Seriously? Because of a few damp swimwear items, a tiny, ignored bladder infection, and the repression of my usual existential anxieties, which had only briefly multiplied tenfold? Goodness, I've repressed much more than that; there's no need to wet my panties, get infected, and poison my entire body the day after tomorrow. A more mature version of myself could, of course, have figured out that there was a connection between the wet shivering on the beach and the subsequent persistent chittering in my bladder ("I just drink a lot!"), the stabbing pain in my left ureter ("It's just a dislocated ovary, it'll go away!"), and the unhealthy color of my face in the mirror ("This low blood pressure, always!"). I should also have acknowledged that after extensive professional upheaval, which wasn't without pain, I should have allowed myself a bit of rest instead of working through Christmas and New Year's. Well, I survived, but only thanks to modern medicine.
But since my last bout of pyelonephritis, I've been trying to be more mindful. I've been trying to stay in good contact with myself, especially with my kidneys. I'm trying to treat my body, my psyche, and all of these things with respect, with attention and care, so that I don't get any more bills just because I don't feel like getting dry clothes and am suppressing my fears.
So every morning, I mindfully drink a cup of bladder and kidney tea. I would never have drunk anything like that before; I only knew about it from a silly joke about a patient and a nurse – "Nurse, could you please bring me some bladder and kidney tea?" – and now, when I choke down the brew every morning, I remember why. Birch leaves, goldenrod, couch grass root, licorice root, and horsetail – it can't taste much different from what the kidneys produce, but perhaps there's a connection there too that I just don't understand yet.
My son recently said, when he caught me trying to lug the heavy kitchen table around by myself—with a beginning case of tennis elbow, mind you—that I was like Monty Python's Black Knight, who lost both arms and legs in a sword fight long ago but still wants to keep going, even claiming he can still win. I, completely wedged into the kitchen table, said that was nonsense, that I'd recently been taking great care of myself and drinking totally grown-up kidney tea. He shook his head, took the table from me, and left.
süeddeutsche
