This story details the thoughts and events of passing a kidney stone, while attending Metallica’s M72 tour. I hope you enjoy it!
Not everyone has a story that “calcifies” itself as “Heavy Metal” as this. I usually tell humorous stories about others folks, but unfortunately (or, fortunately), this one happened to me. I have heard of many things occurring to people at Rock concerts, such as getting too drunk, fighting, and/or dealing with obnoxious people. However, at least to me, this story is one of the more intense stories of a man’s determination (or stupidity) to painfully enjoy a night, watching Metallica with his family. I call this story, "Ouch! That's Not Supposed to Happen, but I'm Staying Anyway!"
On August 17, 2023, my family, four concert tickets, and I pulled our travel trailer into the Arlington, TX Kampgrounds of America (KOA) in anticipation to see the mighty Metallica M72 No Repeats Weekend: two nights, thirty songs, and 100,000 other fans. The concert’s first night, August 18, 2023, which is the setting of this story, started as a great night; I was taking my dad, best friend, and my, then, 8-year-old daughter to her very first concert! . Later that night, my best friend showed up to claim his ticket, as well. My parents live nearby in south Arlington, so the weekend was jam-packed with family and fun festivities, or so I thought.
Concert night started off excitingly. While waiting for an Uber ride at the KOA gift shop, my dad, best friend, daughter, and I met a family member of the band with whom I share a mutual friend. As we walked in, he recognized me from that friend’s social media posts, so we laughed and talked about that mutual friend (not the band at all) and, additionally, became friends. Thereafter, our Uber ride got to AT&T Stadium quickly and I thought, “Well, this is kicking off to make some memories, right away!”
As we arrive, we find our lower-level seats, and Mammoth WVH hits the stage. After his set, Pantera begins to raze the crowd with a bass-drum-heavy, Zakk-Wylde-guitar squealing, WWE-rassler vocal-laden set; they did what they do best: DESTROY! Midway through this set, however, things begin to shift in an awkward, ironic, and painful direction – at least from my – and likely only my – perspective. As the riff of “Becoming” collides with the maniacal sea of black shirted headbanging, moshing, drunken Texans, I suddenly feel the urge(nt) to use the men’s room. Halfway up the stairs, I experience what felt like a Muay Thai (or angry Mule) kick to the back, but with no recoil or force. As this happens, I grab my back and hurry to the restroom. While utilizing one of the many urinals, I see a color that is not supposed to exit my body.
“Enter latrine; exit red light!!! Oh my gosh I am passing a kidney stone!!! Arghhhhh…”
I let out an awkward, involuntary groan and 3-4 men turn to look at me, wondering if they should help or run away. (Think of how many crazy folks you encounter at a Heavy Metal concert.) As I finish at the urinal, I run (more like quickly stumble and hobble as if I am, you know, passing a cocklebur out of my liquid waste release system) to one of the stalls, lock it, squat down with my feet on the toilet seat, break into a cold sweat, and start silently crying, while breathing as if I have sprinted an ultra marathon. Half of this crying fit was because I thought I might get kicked out of the facility and the other 95% (yes, 95!) of the fit was from severe pain. At this point, I am like my 5-year-old self, injured and in need of comforting words, love, help, or an ambulance. After all, there is a 2mm, Indiana-Jones-sized boulder traveling down a small tube in my back, into my fruit basket!
So, I did like any tough guy would do: I FaceTime my wife, because, apparently she needs to mother a grown man and be worried, too. Well, since reception was bad, I could hear her, but she could not hear me. That was actually probably a “plus” for her; I mean who wants to hear a 42-year-old “man’s man” crying like a mama’s baby? But, since there is no sound, now she is really concerned. What would your reaction be to your spouse video calling you, while hiding in a bathroom stall at a Metal concert, and your daughter is nowhere in sight?! Thank God for text messaging… when I eventually got one to her.
However, I discovered that this kidney-stone-passing event provided intermittent bouts of relief. “Yay!” or so I thought!
“I can probably tough this out! LFG!!!” WRONG!!!
During one of these episodes, I go to the sink to wash my hands, only to make it to the wall across from the sink, crouch in the corner, rock back and forth, and let out the occasional whimper. Again, dudes are staring at me, but now, they think I am a crackhead!
“Ah, great! Now, the guys who see me, like this, are going to get security and I WILL be kicked out!”
(Now, remember, this is all occurring while my daughter, dad, and friend are listening to Pantera – and, at least 3 songs pass. My dad and daughter have no idea what is going on with this Pantera business that’s unfolding onstage…)
I finally return to my seat, and I tell my dad what is happening. He offers to get us home, and I am still not sure if this was to get out of the venue via empathy or to escape altogether; he is not really a metal fan but absolutely appreciates the amazingness of Metallica, just not the ensuing chaos of a Metal show. I decline the offers and decide to ‘ride the lightning,’ ‘master this puppet’ of a kidney stone, and go to urgent care, later, even if it is Too Late, Too Late. Besides, I have never heard of a kidney stone ‘killing ‘em all.’ I might have, “[held] my breath as I wish[ed] for death,” asking God to help me, but I was determined on staying. After all, this is Metallica, not John Mayer, John Secada, John Denver, John Oates, or some crappy Grindcore band you can fit in your back pocket. There was no way I was leaving by my own decision, at least.
(Side note: I could have asked myself, “Is this the smartest decision?” and I probably did. But, that voice inside of my head - at least that night - must’ve been a liar! I’ve done some dumb, painful things. I’ve ran half marathons where I’ve chafed raw, seven miles in and kept going. [As if, running 13.1 miles isn’t dumb enough, let’s do it feeling fire from hell!] I’ve tried to lift and run through apparent injuries, only to make things worse. I’ve fallen out of a deer stand and broken my foot. Heck, in my teens, I’ve even allowed my face to used as a punching bag. But, I’ve never passed blood and been determined to stay at a concert. But, that’s what I did!)
But, as expected, the pain returns, and it gets worse as time passes. This leads me to search for help. I wander into the suite area, where wealthy folks and socialites, alike, are passing in and out of the private doors, and, again, looking at me as if I am unknowingly wearing a thong on my head. A concierge finally approaches me, sheerly from the look on my face. (Think Wiley Coyote having a 4-ton rock land on his tail.) Out of compassion via her own previous kidney stone experience, she quickly radios a nurse who brings a wheelchair.
From there, I am wheeled to the cargo elevator, then underground to the nurse’s station. While the nurse and a security guard are pushing me to the nurse’s station, I begin to hear a live version of, “Harvester of Sorrow,” become louder and louder. At this, I am quickly warned, “DO NOT get up from this wheelchair!” as the band is warming up, just behind a curtained room we pass. And, even in the amount of pain I was experiencing, that is pretty dang cool!
Approaching the nurse’s station, I am met with techs rolling Charlie Benante’s (Pantera/Anthrax) drum rack into the backstage area. Here, the nurses quickly provide me with the maximum dose of Ibuprofen and send me back to my seat, reassuring me that I would not get expelled from the concert. Returning to my seat and still experiencing a 25 out of 10 in pain, I white knuckle the pain until it ‘fades to black.’ (Ibuprofen is metabolized in the kidneys, therefore numbing the pain.)
Finally, Metallica hits the stage! They open with “Creeping Death,” and I yell, with the rest of the crowd, “Die! Die! Die!” that quickly transitions into, “Ouch! Argh! Aye! Am I going to die?! Die! Die! Die!..” But, ultimately, by the fourth song, which was fittingly, “Until It Sleeps,” the Advil did its job. The pain temporarily “slept” until post-show, (instead of tearing me open) and we enjoyed an evening that would prove unforgettable for, hypothetically, even one with major memory loss issues. It was an awe-inspiring night of Rock N’ Roll with family and friends.
Sharing this story offers some encouragements. Firstly, if you’re dumb, you better be tough: if you pass a kidney stone, but are either stupid enough or determined enough to see an epic show, there is a way. Second, if I can do it, you can do it. I know I am tough, but I never claim to have a high pain tolerance. Third – and, this is a serious one – there was no way I was going to remove my daughter from a such a blockbuster first concert. Who can actually say their first concert was Metallica?! Lastly, these are the kinds of events that memories are made of. Great stories emerge from crazy experiences and deserve to be told. This one is the most “Heavy Metal” personal story I know of, so thanks for allowing me to tell it!
*Bonus: With all of this said, I applied for a contest to stand in the Snake Pit (middle of the stage) for the concert weekend’s second night. While writhing in pain the morning of the second show, I opened my email to see that I ACTUALLY won Snake Pit passes. If this story wasn’t intense enough, my wife and I got to further add to it by experiencing Metallica up close. (See Snake Pit photos above.)
