Bathroom Siren

            Yesterday I decided that I had enough of being itchy and actually went to see my doctor. Now, the itching has been with me for a few days and there is no reason for it. It may be chalked up to seasonal allergies, what with the male coniferous trees dispatching their man spunk all over society. An allergy diagnosis would not be all that surprising. However, I did have a bout of strange itchiness late last summer for three weeks when it was hot. My neuro said, “noooope not MS. Or at least not an attack.” Fair enough. This time, I started popping the max daily dose (according to a good pharmacist friend of mine) of Kirkland brand extra strength “Reactin.” It took the edge off.

            Which leads me to yesterday.

            I had to take my little cherub with me to the appointment with my family doc. She was kind enough to tell the nurse and the doctor that I was there because my face is itchy. I had a sudden view of my future as a feeble senior, who has a strong, if overbearing, patient advocate. Given that I am also having crushing fatigue, which is keeping me from staying awake for the entire day or working out or doing anything remotely not associated with sitting or lying down, he decided that I need to have some blood drawn. I also tossed in that I am pretty sure I had my first hot flash a little while ago and he checked off a few more boxes. Eighteen of them, actually. Plus, he gave me a stronger prescription for an antihistamine. Blissfully, it takes the edge off of the itching more than the “Reactin.”

            We went out to the car and I decided, on a whim to see if I could actually book an appointment with the lab. As luck would have it, the lab across the street from where I was parked had an opening six minutes later. With muted cheers and mildly enthusiastic fist pumps, I booked it. We drove across the street and went searching through the ghetto-ish mall to find where I would be leaving some blood.

            Once we found the place and checked in, I was taken in within a few minutes. I had to entertain my kid to keep her from putting her hands in the sharps container or rolling out into the hall on her wheeled stool. The nice tech came in and had the blood out of me faster than Dracula after waking from the arctic summer.

            “OK, we’re all finished up here, you’ll just need to do a urine sample and you’ll be all done,” she was saying as she was pulling out the pee cup and the fancy genital wet nap. I hadn’t realized I was leaving two fluids behind. She directed me to the washroom after instructing me to do nothing with my left arm for the next two hours.

            Let me stop to overshare about me. I have a shy bladder. I can’t pee when I have someone looking at me, unless the old bladder is full to the point of making a whale think wow that is a lot of piss. Also, people who try the knob like there is a fucking zombie apocalypse on their side of the door can suck it. This causes both sphincters on my urethra to kink off like a naughty kid with a garden hose.

            We got into the bathroom and I prepped the area, twisted the lid off and sat. Every time I thought, OK here we go, my offspring would turn and stare. This went on for far longer than I was comfortable sitting in a room that was in dire need of napalm. I tried turning the tap on and thinking of all kinds of water bodies. “Why are you doing that?” Little peepers staring at me inquisitively. Sigh. I tried getting up and making her go, in the hopes that her going would cause peer pressure. No. I tried again. That’s when the zombie apocalypse happened. Moderately annoyed, I decided this was not the time nor the place. We went back to reception to request another genital wet nap. That was quite the to do, what with needing a copy of the requisition because they were “closing soon” and I would not be fulfilling my end of the biological bargain. I took my brown bag of shame and left the lab, retracing our steps back to the car.

            “Can we go to the zoo now?” Yeah, I had promised a trip to the zoo. Idiot. Sucker. I was tired. I wanted to take my fatigue and go home. But nope. I can’t possibly rob my child of experiences and ruining her summer with my cries of “IDONTWANNA.” We went. We saw the animals. We had some lunch. We drank lots of water. We had to pee. WE HAD TO PEE!

            I rushed her to the washroom by the penguins. She was firm that she didn’t have to pee. But I was in full dancing mode. We pressed through the throngs of strollers and waiting children in the washroom. Apparently shy bladder isn’t uncommon.

            We got into the family sized deluxe stall. I had to dig out the brown bag, deploy the wipe and catch this party midstream. All while not pissing my pants or on the floor or traumatizing the child. When I pulled the bag out of my backpack someone piped up, at full volume. “What are you doing with that bag mom?”

            “Shhhh.” I was tap dancing like Fred Astaire. I prepped the region and tossed the wrapper in the garbage.

            “What is that?” Of course, she needed to open the garbage to see.

            “Don’t. Touch. Anything.” My emotions were directly proportional to the possibility of pissing anywhere but the toilet. Lid off I begin. And as any good female would, promptly pissed on my hand while trying to hit the target. No, I didn’t piss on the floor. I’ve done enough of these to be a bit of a pee ninja. I will throw in that the auto flush was doing just that ad nauseum.

            “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT CUP MOM? OH. MY. GOD. ARE YOU PEEING IN IT? ARE YOU GOING TO DRINK IT? EWWW THAT’S YUCKY MOM!” There went my dignity.

            “Please be quiet, people are trying to have some privacy.” I was cleaning it off and placing it back into the brown bag, wondering who is the lab kidding?

            In a loud whisper she replied, “why are you putting that in your backpack?”

            “I have to drop it off on the way home,” I quietly whispered. I silently added please forget that there is a brown bag with a bottle of piss in my backpack. That trauma over, we moved on to looking at the tiger bones while trying not to be underfoot of the adult night that was being set up. I have never wanted to partake in an adult night so bad.

We dropped off my sample without incident. I would like to think that we both learned lessons yesterday. She learned about the gentle nuances of urine collection. I learned that I do not perform well under pressure unless I am under a significant amount of pressure.