Health, Health, or Lack Thereof

You ever have one of those days?

It seems I’m having one of those months. Today was just the tip of the iceberg of weird shit that makes up what I call my life.

This afternoon, which I guess was technically yesterday now, I got the joy of having my bladder invaded by an old guy with a camera on a stick. Laying back on a table with my legs in stirrups should be old hat for me by now. I mean, I’ve had four children. That means that approximately 934 doctors, nurses, aides, interns, med students, fireman, anesthesiologists, flower delivery people, cafeteria workers, admission processors, husbands, my mom and probably your mom as well have all seen my most private girl-business. And about a third of those have had their hands up IN my business. (Note: Don’t give birth at a teaching hospital if you can avoid it. “Take turns sticking your hand in there and feeling that.” are not words you want to hear while you are in labor.)
Yeah . Anyway, having my bits flapping in the breeze, exposed for all to see really shouldn’t be any big deal anymore, but there’s just something a bit degrading about being up in those damn stirrups. Especially when everyone leaves the room for like twenty minutes to go have lunch or something, while you remain like that, feeling uncomfortably exposed and really hoping your ass isn’t leaving sweat marks on the stupid paper sheets, because then it will either stick to you when you get to stand up, or you’ll leave behind a sweaty ass-print and be left trying to quickly rip off the offending bit of paper and discreetly shove it into the trash before the nurse comes back in.

So when they came back from their Disney vacation or whatever they were doing while I may or may not have been sweating and half naked in stirrups, the nurse comes in first to “prep” me. She swabs me with one of those q-tip thingys that’s on a foot-long stick, and then tells me the next substance might “Burn a bit, but only for like 30-45 seconds” then she informs me that she’s going to leave the “applicator” in for a bit to help dilate my urethra.

What that translated to was “I’m going to shove a foot long Q-Tip that burns in your pee-hole and leave it there while I go pick my kids up from school and do some grocery shopping.” As she left the second time, she informed me that shed be back when the other doctor was done with the scope and oh by the way “I can tell you are nervous and sweating. Try to relax.”

Yeah, I’m going to relax here, with my legs up in the air, my secret woman-cave all exposed, and a fucking mega-swab shoved in my pee-place. And you had to point out that I was sweating? Really? So now I’ve got paper-stuck-to-my-ass-aphobia going on as well.



As I’m waiting, and trying really hard to will myself not to sweat, it occurs to me that she had said she was waiting for the other doctor to BE DONE WITH THE SCOPE. So now I’ve got visions of being invaded by a probe that was, not ten minutes earlier, firmly ensconced in the penis of the 450 pound, 90 year old man in the wheelchair that I’d seen in the waiting room.

Oh. Joy.

Finally, both nurse and doctor return from bird watching in the Himalayans and I eye the scope wrapped in a blue towel as the nurse sets it down. Seeing my glance she smiles knowingly.

“Don’t worry, we sterilized it. That’s what took so long.”

I mutter something incoherent as the doctor removes the burning swab or piss-pain and unceremoniously invades my bladder with his giant flexible-camera tube. I generally don’t let anyone enter any of my holes unless they have properly woo’d me first or I happen to be giving birth to them, but special circumstances prevail. The nurse spends the entire time watching my face and saying things like:

“My patients tell me it doesn’t hurt, just feels like pressure. But I wouldn’t know myself.”

(Yeah. Bite me.)

I try to keep my face as blank as I can, because she seems to be getting a weird thrill from watching my expressions, but I think I’ve failed.

Meanwhile, the doctor is trying to make conversation with me as he fills my bladder with water and pokes around.
The actual process takes all of three minutes, but these are not normal minutes, these are three extremely long minutes, the kind where every minute last twenty-seven decades.

Then it’s over, and I try to flee, but the doctor is one of those guys that likes to talk, and explain, in detail, things which he has already explained to me repeatedly.

By this point, it is 4:30 and I really really REALLY just want to leave, like NOW already. I’m going to get stuck in rush hour traffic on the highway, and I’ve been there for over two and a half hours. And I’m simply done.

The nurse then redeemed herself a tiny bit by interrupting him to inform me that I HAD to go pee RIGHT NOW in order to rid myself of the water they’d pumped into me, before I got an infection. I silently thanked her and hobbled to the bathroom, walking like an overstuffed penguin who’d just spent 45 minutes in stirrups with a q-tip jammed in her ho-hah.

Eventually I am free. Yay!

The outcome of all this, by the way?
The mystery tumor I had in my bladder has just as mysteriously disappeared.

I’m ok with that.

I have enough weirdshit-itis going on already, thanks.

My kidney stone, which is 6x4mms, is too big to pass on it’s own and keeps popping in and out of the ureter, where it causes intense pain, blockage and bleeding for a bit before “popping” back into my kidney. It needs to come out already, and it’s not in a spot where they can just grab it with their super-tongs on a stick.

They’ve never heard of lithotripsy damaging a pancreas before and think that doing it again is my best option so it looks like I’ll be getting blasted a week from tomorrow if my GI okays it.
I manage to make it home just before six, just in time to cook dinner, wrangle the kids into bed and tackle more of the laundry that never, ever ends.

And that was just Tuesday.

So. How was your day?