The technician is taking a sonogram of my crotch.

When my kidneys start to brew up stones -- as both are doing right at this moment; rah! -- the pain manifests itself first in my groin, as a low throb. The doctor take some sort of malevolent, malpractice-inspired joy in being a completist, so after my lower back is checked to see how many little calcium nuggets are about to tear their way down my ureter, he also check anything else that happens to be exposed.

The process involves cold goo, about ten minutes of prodding and a lot of awkward staring at the ceiling. The tech fiddles with the monitor and prints out screen captures.

"Everything looks good on this end," he says as he finishes up.

Which I take as a diagnosis and a compliment.