Friday, December 10, 2010

Poking Prostates, or, Why I Am All Sad Kitty Today

I sat in the doctor's office, blissfully free from my children. I was surrounded by weird slice-away images of male anatomy. Um. Gross? Oh, and if that weren't enough, I was stuck staring at a 3D diorama of prostate disease. I got bored, so I poked one. Turns out, the prostate is shaped like a nice landscaping river rock, but is rubbery like an eraser. Who knew?

Your urologist! That's who!

The nurse tech lady came in and took my blood pressure. She took my blood pressure with the cuff AND the stethoscope on top of my furry thick sweater. Immediately I felt in capable hands. NO, not really.

The doctor though, seemed pretty capable. Especially when he told me that that bladder is designed to "keep the bad shit where it needs to be."

Then, in the middle of our chuckle-fest, he told me that I should keep a bladder diary.

"Dear Bladder, today you were only a little douche-y. I drank water and hated you for it. But then I ate a cookie. Oh, and I didn't pee myself when I sneezed. Thanks for working, sort of. Love, Sam."

But no, I have to record what I eat and drink and see if it helps.

And that's not the worst part. Not the worst by FAR.

He said I have to stop drinking carbonated beverages.

Do you know what this fucking means, Friends? DO YOU????

No Coke Zero. No Sprite Zero. NO. COKE. ZERO.

THE EVER LOVING HORROR!!!!

All because my bladder is irritated. Well guess what! I'm fucking irritated. Like every single day! I'm irritated with my seat belt when it eats my hair. I'm irritated with my hair for being eaten by EVERYTHING - doors, sunroofs, coats, buttons. The list goes on! AND ON.

And you don't see me getting inflamed and causing spasms!

I can't even wrap my mind around this. Too bad I didn't take that job at the rehab place (true story) because then, at least, I could've worked the program to kick my habit.

Dirty, dirty bastards.

Comments, questions, have you ever had to give up something you LOVE?

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