I’ve had my fair share of health issues: deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary emboli, diabetes, or as Wilford Brimley would say, dia-beet-us. I have more scar tissue on my arms than I have veins you can get anything out of. I am a seasoned, leathery doctor’s office cowboy.
So when I told my doctor about some weird things happening with The Baby Maker, I wasn’t worried. Ok, I was a little bit concerned. But bring on the tests. It’s nothing I haven’t braved before. I shall take this on with the strength of 1,000 warriors.
So she had me schedule an ultrasound. The kind lady at the scheduling desk set it all up for me and then said, “Now, before your appointment, you have to drink 32 ounces of water and you can’t go to the bathroom. Your bladder needs to be full for the ultrasound.”
I think I was in a rush that day, so I was like, “Yeah, yeah, water, don’t pee, thanks a bunch.” I forgot all about it, until they called me the day before to remind me.
“Now don’t forget; you need to drink 32 ounces of water 45 minutes prior to your appointment and you cannot use the bathroom.” It wasn’t until that phone call that it dawned on me that this might be difficult. I mean, I really like to pee when my bladder is full. Nonsense! I have come through greater challenges than this.
One hour before my appointment, I drank one 16 ounce bottle of water. As I as filling up the bottle again, I realized I already had to pee. I was mildly irritated at first but then I was hit with a wave of furious terror. Oh my God…I can’t pee. I can’t pee. What the fuck am I going to do?! I stood in my kitchen, holding the 16 ounces of water I still had to consume, spiraling downward into anxiety when it hit me: this has happened before.
When I was a kid, I would get bored in church. I would do anything to get up and move around. Mostly I would go tap dance on the stone floor in the lobby. I had those adorable patent leather shoes that clicked when I walked, which made me feel fancy. No longer able to endure my squirming, my mother would let me loose to do what all small brown children should do: tap dance. When that didn’t work, I’d resort to claiming I needed to go to the bathroom. I was still small, so my mother had to take me to make sure I didn’t get kidnapped. (There was a band of church-going kidnappers on the loose.) I’d go so far as to sit down on the toilet, my white tights around my ankles, knowing full well I didn’t have to pee. My mother would get mad and lecture me, but I could kill 5-10 minutes this way and any amount of time I had away from all the boring was ok by me.
One Sunday, my mother had had enough. She told me, “The next time you say you have to go potty and you really don’t, I’m gonna spank your butt.” I’m gonna spank your butt was a terrifying threat to a 4 year old. It’s like if someone were to say to me, I’m gonna audit your tax return today. Ohhh. I don’t want that to happen.
My mother tells the rest of the story like this:
“We were in the car, driving home from church, and you were quietly whimpering in the back seat. I asked you what was wrong and you said, ‘I have to go potty.’ So when we got home, I took you to the bathroom and you just sat there and cried, saying you couldn’t go.”
So they took me to the emergency room. Turns out, I had been so worried about getting a spanking that my little bladder muscles had a death grip on my urine. I have no idea how they solved this problem but for the last 31 years, when I gotta go, I get real anxious about it. I once got stuck in New York City airport traffic the day before Christmas and almost pissed in the shuttle van. There was a small child sitting next to me and I fully planned to blame it on him.
As I drove to the doctor’s office, my bladder uncomfortably full, my anxiety got worse and worse. Every bump I went over, every time I applied the brakes, 32 ounces of water sloshed around inside me and I thought I might cry. I parked and got out of the car, shifting my bladder’s contents to a new, even more horrible position. By the time I’d arrived at the radiology department, I was about ready to call it quits.
“Hiihaveanappointmentforanultrasound.” I stood in front of the receptionist, bouncing.
She smiled at me. “Your name?”
“Dresdenjones.”
“What was that?”
Panting now. “Dresden…Jones.”
She typed my name into her keyboard and I swear, with every click, I had to pee worse.
“Ok, you’re all checked in. You can have a seat.”
“Ok.” Pause. “I really have to pee.” I don't know; I thought maybe I'd tell her and she'd laugh and say, "Oh that was just a suggestion. Go to the bathroom, crazy!"
But she didn't, and she had the nerve to smile at me. “I know. But you can’t.”
Son of a bitch! These fuckers aren’t kidding! I have to pee! I’m not allowed to pee!
Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me, “GO TO THE BATHROOM YOU STUPID BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FULL YOUR BLADDER IS?!?!”
I started pacing. A nurse walked out of the back and called someone else’s name. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh sweet, loving Buddha.
Every time another person in the waiting room moved or spoke, it was like a wool sweater on a sunburn. Two little children kept asking their mom, “Can we have McDonalds after this?” A starry-eyed couple whispered and giggled. A man who looked like my social studies teacher in 9th grade asked the receptionist what floor mental health was on. I tried sitting down only to discover that applied more piercing pressure to my bladder. It was suddenly 400 degrees in the waiting room, so I took off my sweater and continued to pace. Meanwhile, my body was still screaming at me.
“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?? YOU HAVE BEEN TRAINED TO USE THE BATHROOM WHEN YOUR BLADDER IS FULL! THAT IS WHAT WE DO! FOR THE LOVE OF HOLY CHRIST, GO TO THE BATHROOM!!!!”
I marched up to the receptionist desk. “Um, excuse me. Yeah, hi. I have to pee really badly. Like really, unbelievably, like I have never had to pee this badly in my life.”
She smiled at me. “I’ll go tell them.”
Thank you! Christ on a cracker, I told you I had to pee when I got here 7 minutes ago; why didn’t you tell them then?! While she was gone, I decided to distract myself by Googling, “How to hold it when you have to go to the bathroom” on my phone. This did not return useful results, unless I happened to be holding my urine for sexual purposes. Yes. People do that. According to Wikipedia.
Happy Smiley Stupidface returned and said, “Two minutes.”
Two minutes?? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t have two seconds, you friendly asshole! I decided that I wasn’t going to make it and I’d better tell someone. I texted Joe, “I am going to pee all over this waiting room.” I dropped to my knees and began delivering Samuel L. Jackson’s speech from Pulp Fiction.
“The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and a finder of lost children.”
“Dresden Jones?”
“YES!”
I was rushed back to a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll do this first ultrasound quickly so you can go to the bathroom.”
Bless you, my child. Bless you.
There’s some jelly on my lower abdomen, she’s rolling her little thing around, and she says, “Wow! Your bladder is really full!”
Really???? NO SHIT, sweetheart. How’s about I throw that computer monitor at you? How about that??
Soon it was all over and I was set free to go to the bathroom and pee like I have never peed before. Everything else faded away; it was just me and the toilet. We basked in the glorious sun, flanked on both sides by whimsical Disney creatures. I became one with the cool, white porcelain; we spoke the same ancient language. As my ordeal came to an end, I heard the faint sound of Jeff Buckley singing Hallelujah.
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