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the latest
waddle: good morning, wordpress - 10:36 a.m. , 2009-07-03 elaborate murder attempt - 2:56 p.m. , 2009-07-01 building a tractor in the basement - 10:42 a.m. , 2009-06-19 ask no questions tell just a few lies - 3:17 p.m. , 2009-06-09 my long lasting flavor really lasts long - 1:10 p.m. , 2009-06-04
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MUCH, MUCH MORE THAN YOU WANTED TO KNOW After the normal CT scan, I figured I was done with the Blood-Pee Odyssey. (That sounds kind of like a ride at Epcot Center.) I mean, if sophisticated imaging techniques are not revealing anything bad and wrong, then we are good to go, right? Is that not a clear go-ahead to keep on peeing with impunity and so the fuck what if a few rogue blood cells go swimming around in there? So I messaged my doctor, on the groovy online health record thing which is a reason in and of itself never to leave her practice, and asked did I really truly have to go to the urologist? Because is it not clear that there's nothing wrong with me? (Nothing wrong with my innards, I mean. Because obviously there is something wrong with me, as close to 900 entries will show.) If the doctor had ignored my question, or been bitchy/condescending as doctors usually are, I would have said a big fuck you to further testing and gone on my merry, bloody-pee way. Instead she had to go and be caring and friendly and reasonable, and explain why I should do the follow-up, so I flipped my hair out of my eyes like a cranky goth teenager and said OH ALL RIGHT. TO THE UROLOGIST I WILL GO. Although I am not sure the analogy holds because is peeing in a cup goth? David Bowie used to do it, so at the very least I guess it's "glam" or "new wave" or something, which may be close enough. Immediately after checking in at the urologist's office, they requested some pee. At my regular doctor, you pee in a laboratory specimen cup, with a lid. At the urologist, they just handed me a plastic drinking cup, of the sort you find stacked by the keg at a frat party, with my name magic-markered on the side. And no lid. It was as if they were trying to make a special point. "You think we are scared of a little pee? Give us a break. We are urology. We are all about pee. In open containers, no less." Then I imagine this pee-bravado spokesperson maniacally splashing pee on himself, and continuing to yell about how it does not bother him one bit. I also imagine a German accent, for some reason. (Strange aside: I am listening to the Philip Glass "Dracula" soundtrack and there is an interval in there that exactly mimics the Windows shutdown music. Oooh, how clever. Hey, look at me! I'm Philip Glass!) Also, there was a sign in the waiting room that said ADDITIONAL PRIVACY AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST. Since it was a tiny office, I wasn't sure where the "additional privacy" was going to come from. I hope it was really just a big sheet they would bring out and toss over your head while you sat there reading a magazine. The urologist himself was insanely good-looking. To the point where I was not sure if he was really a urologist or some actor-slash-Prada-model who had been hired as a prank. (Dude! You're on Candid Catheter!) I had formerly been nonchalant about the idea of a male doctor handling my stuff, but the blindingly-handsome factor was throwing me off my game somewhat. Fortunately, my unclean thoughts were greatly lessened when I glanced down and saw that he was wearing clogs. What is it with doctors and those stupid clogs? There should be a mandatory course in medical school about avoiding such retarded footwear. Anyway, his good looks may also have had something to do with the fact that he was able to persuade me into having the cystoscopy right then and there, when formerly the plan was just a "consultation" and then maybe return for invasive procedures at a later date. So that is how I ended up naked from the waist down and watching the inside of my bladder on TV. My bladder is wonderfully boring on the inside, and as of now there is officially No Reason Whatsoever why microscopic blood shows up in my pee. I am down with negative results and I am down with having a healthy (if mysterious) urinary tract; I just wish it didn't take having a camera shoved up my Urethra Franklin to find that out. I took the train home like a bad-ass, clutching my patient handout that warned of "mild discomfort on urination" as a result of the procedure. I don't know about your personal discomfort threshold, but my "mild discomfort" is a slightly too-tight shoe or someone standing all weirdly close to me. Nothing that makes me say FUCKITY FUCKITY FUCK in the bathroom can be classified as "mild discomfort." But it's all done. Finished! What will I do without my bi-monthly pee appointments? Maybe I will pee in various household containers, just out of nostalgia. IKEA KEEP ON KEEPIN' ON During a discussion of IKEA, during which I first confessed to being too much of a neurotic weirdo to drop Nora off in the play area and shop in peace (confession not included because of boringness), and then freaked out entirely in my characteristic make-your-head-spin Non Sequitur Girl fashion: doctordaveod: You know the financial logic of IKEA's Sm�land has to be based on the idea that people will shop longer and spend more money if their children are safely buried under thousands of blue plastic balls... I will be at the Hideout tomorrow if you want to stalk. ---mimi smartypants bumped her head, went to bed, didn't get up in the morning. |
