I Think It Would Be Fairly Safe To Say...

…that 99% of my readers are female. Therefore, what I’m about to talk about will make perfect sense. If for no other reason than to serve as a source of hilarity with a side dose of ‘thank goodness it isn’t me’.

Men (man?), you’ve been warned. Look away. Look away now.

When we returned from last weekend’s trip to see the inlaws, I managed to bring back something I’ve never had before - a UTI. I don’t need to spell that out, right? We all know what I mean? Good.

Wednesday morning, our last morning at the inlaws, I woke feeling a bit ‘off’. By lunchtime, I’d been to the toilet six thousand times and had realised something was up. During the car ride home that afternoon, I felt exactly like I was sitting on a pile of thorns with a vice strapped around my bladder. Oh. My. WORD.

UTIs are a rite of passage for the female population. It’s in the manual, right? Ridiculously common. Nobody likes to talk about them though. Because they’re ‘up there’. And just generally unpleasant to think about. But in my 28 years on this planet, I’ve never had one. I battled on bravely whimperingly until this afternoon - three days of ‘ick’. It was a dumb idea to wait. Not really being wonderfully enthusiastic about antibiotics at the best of times, I figured a couple of standby home remedies would see me through. I stocked up on chocolate (duh) and tried to down a glass of what Talented Hubby unhelpfully referred to as ‘raw sewerage’ - a combination of cranberry drink, bicarb (baking) soda, water and a dash of green cordial for good measure, lending the whole concoction an endearing browny-green hue. Three sips in, I was ready to give up and embrace my new found ’sitting on razor blades’ posture for life. It wasn’t so bad if you leaned 34º to the right.

Eventually, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I tried - on a Friday afternoon no less - to get an appointment with my wonderful (female) doctor. Now, I don’t know if this is true the world over, but the Law of Medical Unavailability here in Australia states that no doctor within a thirty mile radius will have any slots open at the time of greatest need, which will inevitably be either Friday afternoon at 4:45pm or at any time Saturday or Sunday. There are clinics which are open Saturday mornings, but they are usually booked solid and I wasn’t exactly fancying the idea of another night being unable to sleep on my stomach. I didn’t have a hope of getting in to see Perfect Doctor, who was all tapped out well into May (the downside of having such a brilliant lady doctor is that every other woman in six suburbs is on her books). I tried Talented Hubby’s clinic - they don’t take new patients on the weekend (huh?). I was left with the after-hours clinic.

Let me tell you a little bit about the after-hours clinic. The saddest, sorriest folk stumble into that place and collapse into the uncomfortable chairs with identical looks of pure desperation on their faces. The regular doctors have shut up shop for the day and ducking into the emergency room is a little extreme for a cough so this is their last option. Most of them look - and feel - completely miserable. It’s not a place you want to be.

I should have worked out by now that this week wasn’t going to be my luckiest, and even more so when it took me twenty minutes to get through to their switchboard late this afternoon. But I naively assumed I was due some grace and that I’d be in and out quickly, lovely drugs in hand and visions of unimpeded peeing dancing through my gleeful little head.

I was so very wrong.

My appointment was for 7:30. You have to understand, UTIs aren’t the most comfy conditions at the best of times, so movement - including dressing to go out (I’ve been in sweats all day) - was horrendous on many levels. I put on a shoe, then had to go pee. I put on the other shoe - pee. I brushed my hair, grabbed my keys, found my purse - pee, pee, pee. You get the idea. Actually getting out to the car and then exiting again once we’d reached the clinic was no better. I sat down to wait, obviously needing to ‘go’ again, but reasoning that I’d have to give a sample - oh joy - soon anyway, so I’d best hold on. At 7:45 the pressure was building. At 8:04 I was boring holes in the back of the receptionist’s head with my eyes. By 8:07 I was trying to fashion a weapon out of discarded magazines. 8:16…8:22…8:34… I finally stood up, came to the very rapid conclusion that I absolutely must get to a toilet in about 2.7 seconds, and hobbled my way over to the desk to let the blissfully unaware receptionist know where I was headed in case my name was called.

“Oh sweetie! I forgot to tell you! You were meant to give a sample forty minutes ago!” she smiles sweetly, unaware that I was fighting a losing battle both with my urge to go potty and to inflict pain on anyone with a normal peeing ability.

Necessary voiding later (gosh, it’s embarrassing cradling the little yellow-lidded pot in a room full of people!) I finally got in to see the doctor. It was now 8:45 and all the chemists (drugstores) in my area close at 9:00. As soon as I walked into her office I let loose with a torrent of self-diagnosis - to which she mercifully agreed - and she gave me a prescription for some antibiotics. I waited for over an hour with a near-exploding bladder to see someone for twelve-point-two seconds. Sigh.

I did get my script filled - just in the nick of time. I’m also all stocked up on this wonderful (yuk) alkalinizer powder that I’m meant to drink to make the, um, ‘product’ less acidic and therefore hurt less. It’s only marginally better than the home remedy cocktail and it still tastes like chalk. Aughh.

So my advice to all of you is this. Never, EVER underestimate the ability to pee without pain. It’s one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity, LOL.