My pee is at threat level: orange

I apologize in advance.

I’m a bit cranky today.

Just thought I’d warn you.

Proceed at your own risk.

There might be a bit of TMI ahead.

Just a bit.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Oh, and to all of my male readers … I’m sorry.

.

.

.

I swear to GOD, I am so tired of my bladder. My defective, faulty, turbulent, rebellious, unruly bladder. I’d call it ugly too, but having never seen it, I can’t verify that particular claim.

Actually, I’m quite disgusted with my entire urinary tract system as a whole. If I could manage to do it before the girls got home from school, I’d yank out the whole bloody mess and see about getting some replacement parts. I wonder if I could get a loaner in the meantime, like I do when my Honda is in the shop for a week?

For crying out loud, Wal-Mart sells everything else under the sun, why can’t they sell bladders too? On clearance? Is that too much to ask? Maybe if they did, I’d actually shop there more than once a year without being coerced by having a gun held to my head.

How come we humans don’t come with warranties, like everything else in this world? I’d like a 100,000 mile check up so that I could replace my entire body, piece by decrepit piece, and be all shiny and new again. Wouldn’t that be nice? Because I can guarantee you that I would have tuned up and/or replaced approximately 891 organs in my body by now, including everything between my split ends and my toes.

Do we even have 891 organs?

Now that I think about it, I suppose it’s better that such a warranty doesn’t exist because if it did, I’m absolutely certain that the second I unearthed it from this God forsaken mess that is my office, I would discover that it expired ten minutes beforehand. And then when my head explodes, I’d be fully aware that it’s going to cost me full price to get another one.

I am currently nursing a bladder infection. Surprised? Me neither, considering this is my sixth one this year.

Yes, 2008 has been a banner year for my God given personal waste management system. Not unlike 2007 which comes in at a close second but only after narrowly edging out every other year for the past ten years.

Right now, I’m popping cipro like Tic Tacs. If there’s ever another anthrax scare, I’m well stocked up so come on over! We’ll make a party out of it. Bring a dish to pass, because more than likely I’ll be too busy peeing to cook anything.

I’m not sure what’s worse … the urge to pee, which makes me feel like I’m in my 56th week of pregnancy with quadruplets or the actual process of peeing, which makes me feel like some deranged bladder fairy crawled around my nether regions and replaced my urine with hydrochloric acid when I wasn’t looking.

Speaking of nether regions, mine are threatening to go on strike if my body has to assume the position one more time. They’re tired of being poked and prodded and scraped and honestly, they aren’t used to any invasive procedure without a little foreplay. And if you count “This is going to be a little cold. You’ll feel some pressure,” as foreplay … that’s just sad. I don’t know what to say to you.

Well, yes I do. You need to get out more.

I don’t want my nether regions to go on strike and I think I can safely assume that Nate doesn’t either. At least, I hope not. Because if he does, I’ve got worse problems than just putrid urine.

As of this week, I have a new urologist and I no longer have to pee in Dixie cups. Thank God, because Dixie cups are so yesterday. I’m all about tomorrow, trend wise, although if my wardrobe is any indication, my tomorrow might be off by a decade or so.

So I no longer have to pee in a cup. Instead, I now get to provide straight cath urine samples each and every time I even think I have a bladder infection, as well as each and every time I finish a course of antibiotics to ensure the infection is gone. And for you newbies out there, a straight cath urine sample is exactly like peeing into a cup, except that instead of peeing into a cup, your urine is sucked out of your body by a thin hollow tube that is plunged directly into your bladder.

See the difference? It’s subtle, but it’s there.

Whoo hoo! Go me! Is this exciting or what? Damn, if I still scrapbooked, I could really go to town with this event. I’ll have to bring my camera to my next appointment. I wonder if catheters are acid free? I’ll stock up on archival mist, just to be safe.

Oh, and just so you know, you don’t get any good drugs during a catheterization. It’s not like giving birth where you can opt to be wasted out of your mind for the entire time and end up with a baby out of the deal. No, you’re totally awake throughout this blessed event and all you get for your trouble is cramping and a bladder pissed off to holy hell because you stuck something in it without its permission.

I hate it when I get stuck with something without my permission. Like the 80 pounds of laundry decorating my laundry room floor – hello? Who told my family to hoard their laundry for a week and then unleash it on me at the last minute? Not me. That’s who.

And another thing … why can’t doctors just tell you the truth? Don’t blow sunshine up my ass, or up my urethra, by telling me that the next minute or so might be a bit uncomfortable but it will be over before I know it.

As if.

I’d respect them a lot more if they didn’t beat around my bush and instead, come right out and tell me OK, this is going to hurt like a motherf*cker and make you feel like you’re giving birth to a blow torch. Don’t even bother trying to relax, it’s impossible. Just be anxious and tense and uptight like you are. If you wig out, don’t kick me because then my hand might slip and there’s no sense in piercing your trachea if I can’t urine out of it, now is there? Hit the nurse instead. That’s why she’s up by your head. Oh, and by the way, we’re going to charge you an exorbitant co-pay each and every time we do this to you. Yep, we screw you every which way possible. Enjoy!

Did you know that when your bladder is in spasm, it makes you go to the bathroom every fifteen minutes? Who would have thought I’d miss the every hour on the hour schedule that comes with your basic, everyday, ho-hum, routine infection?

So now, in addition to cipro, I have to take these funny little pills called Phenazopyridine which is supposed to calm my bladder down. In this sense, they act much like Nate when he gently and quietly talks me through the seizure I have after I open up the Mastercard bill. Except that Nate doesn’t make me pee flaming napalm orange afterwards, like someone stuffed a jug full of nuclear Tang up my hoo-hah when I was otherwise occupied. The prescription bottle warns of “discoloration of urine” so I was expecting a little variation in hue, but nothing that would fall into the HOLY CRAP, IT’S NEON palette.

I thought of posting a photo of it because mere words can’t convey the ethereal, blazing orange essence of my pee but really, when it comes right down to it, it’s pee. Who cares if it’s fluorescent and glows in the dark? Unless you intend to use it as a flashlight, there’s no need to stare at it. Besides, I’ve already reached my yearly quota of inappropriateness by discussing my waste and nether regions and hoo-hah in one post. I figure I’ve got about ten minutes before my mother calls me and leaves me a voice mail message, reaming me out for discussing my privates in public because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I’VE GOT FRIENDS WHO READ THIS BLOG, IN CASE YOU’VE FORGOTTEN, ANDREEEEEEEEA, AND THEY DON’T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR … (*whisper*) … hoo-hah … SO STOP IT ALREADY. OK? BY THE WAY, WHAT’S A HOO-HAH? CALL ME.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to empty my bladder of its vividly bright contents. I’d tell you to have a good day but if you’ve read this far, I’m assuming that’s no longer a viable option.