After years of hearing jokes and stories about the magic effects of morphine, I was expecting something different than the sensations I experienced early Wednesday morning in the emergency room of Lawrence Memorial Hospital.

What I expected: a kind of giddy bliss. Perhaps with rainbows and (if I was lucky) a meeting with the Cowardly Lion.

What I got: a creeping warmth, first across my face, then throughout my body. Then suddenly, I didn’t feel so connected to my body anymore.

“I can still feel the pain,” I told the nurse who had administered the painkiller, a friendly guy named (I think) Matthew. “But I don’t care anymore.”

He giggled. I think. By that time, I was under the extreme influence of exhaustion, misery and drugs, so my memories of the E.R. visit might be somewhat unreliable.

The reason I was at the hospital, it would turn out, was an unwelcome sign of aging: a kidney stone, measured by a CT scan at about 2 millimeters across, which had engulfed my back and abdomen in (literally) nauseating agony.

To be truthful, I was kind of glad.

I’m not the most macho guy in the world – I’m ranked only third in the heavyweight standings – but there’s a secret fear that goes through every man when he decides to submit to an emergency hospital visit.

And the fear is this: What if it’s nothing? What if it’s just gas, or heartburn, from dinner? What if I’m just a wimp?

So the diagnosis, when it came, was something of a twisted relief. Kidney stones aren’t life-threatening, necessarily, but no one who has been through the experience can deny the misery.

In fact, no fewer than four medical professionals told me that having a kidney stone is “the male equivalent of childbirth.” I couldn’t help but notice that the women who told me that had a little bit of glee in their voices; in any case, I called home over the weekend to apologize to my mother for what I’d put her through.

I left the hospital with bloodshot eyes that, days later, are still grossing out anybody who looks at me, along with some equipment similar to that used to pan for gold, and a renewed appreciation for the professionalism and healing touch of the folks at LMH.

And I left with this public service announcement: Drink water. Drink lots of it. And when you’re through, drink more. Flush your system just as clean as nature will allow. It might just save you from wanting to claw your kidney out at some future date.

But if it happens, take comfort. There’s always morphine.