Sunday, March 20, 2011
I awoke Thursday morning to a UTI (urinary tract infection). I knew something was amiss because the only time I awake at six in the morning, is either for work or catching an early flight to Papau New Guinea. I've had those pesky UTI's before, so I know one when I feel one.
I started the cranberry juice consumption immediately. I had a Pilates client at 9am and thought that I felt well enough to go in, but when I got in the car, I had serious reservations. I decided to push through the pain anyway. Why? Because I'm the girl who walked in new and uncomfortable cowboy boots (with fringe) when I was 16 years old, just so I wouldn't look like a complainer in front of my hot new boyfriend. That particular move brought with it, bloody boots and bloody ankles. Clearly suffering makes me feel alive!
In the middle of my Pilates session, I thought my bladder would explode. No Lululemon Astro Pant was going to be able sop up if I had an accident. (For joke reference please go to http://talkingismybusiness.blogspot.com/2010/09/heres-to-you-lululemon.html) I rushed through the last exercise, "Yeah, keep reaching for your toes. That's it. Okay, terrific. Nice job. See you next week." I sprinted to the loo.
When I got home, I desperately tried to locate a doctor, clinic, anyone who would let me pee in a cup, because I didn't have a primary doctor in my new town and it's been over a year since I moved here. Maybe a UTI was just the motivation I needed.
Anyway, the excuses that these offices gave were immense. "The doctor just left." "We can't take new patients." "We don't take your insurance." "Can it wait until Monday?" PLEASE! I just want to urinate in a small plastic cup with my name on it, get a prescription and be on my way.
After an hour and a half of cold calling and googling, I found a family medical center that took walk-ins and my insurance. I was so frustrated and annoyed by the time I got in, that when the nurse asked me to get on the scale to weigh me, I thought I was going to throw a punch. "Why do you need to weigh me?" She said it was necessary if they were going to give me medication. Fine. I kept my clothes on, including my shoes and jacket, which no sane woman would ever do, and I let her weigh me. Wow! That's a big number.
I grabbed my personalized receptacle and went to the little girl's room. Moments later, the doctor, who looked like she had just gotten out of the Brownies, said, "It's a UTI," Shocking.
I asked her about having sex. (No, not with her) and she said she didn't think I should introduce any more bacteria to the area. I smiled, "Yeah, he's done enough of that, right." She... did not smile.
Once again, my uncontrollable need, desire (call it what you will) to turn any and all events into a performance, joke or tag line, simply boggles and confuses. Bud-um-bum.