The Ballad of the UTIs

I suppose it’s time to discuss my internal organs and how they relate to being a supportive girlfriend. Let it be known that I’m thankful for having the internal organs, and that I’m not an amoeba and that I have more than a single cell to define me. I’m quite happy that my body functions almost perfectly and all I must worry about on a constant basis is my stomach: no cheese, no MSG, no excessively oily foods or I’m spending the evening face down in a toilet, sobbing for my mommy.

Only when I met The Boyfriend™ did I start having to worry about another internal organ. Well, OK like 3 internal organs, but it first started with one. No, wait. I’m going to have to get very technical here because it actually involves a fourth, and I’m sure if I were some sort of biology or anatomy major it would include more. Hell, I’m probably even using terms wrong, but whatever.

The first week of May The Boyfriend™ and I were out of town, helping me kill two girlfriend duties with one trip: spend time with his family and support him as he plays in a water polo tournament (side note: have you seen that sport? Eyes and nut sacks were gouged.). Things were going well, everything was pleasant, joy overflowed––until 3am Sunday morning when I woke up and bolted to the bathroom to pee, triggering the pain of a bladder infection to end all bladder infections. I literally crawl on my hands and knees back to the bedroom, forcing myself upright so The Boyfriend™ didn’t see what a wuss I was. I stumbled into bed and shoved my face in the pillow (this time to hide cries of pain rather than that other type of cries from a few hours prior).

The Boyfriend™ insisted on rushing me to the ER, where they wanted to hook me up to an IV full of antibiotics because my bladder is so fucked up that they’re afraid it’s in my kidneys. NO. FUCKING. WAY. Never will you bastard vampire nurses get an IV in me, do you hear? Do you? Apparently not, because you keep trying to convince me of it. Instead, they give me some industrial strength antibiotics that I’m sure if I fell into a vat of them, I’d gain mutant powers. But those three organs of suffering, the triad of grief, would be fine with pills, not IVs. The Boyfriend™ cackled maniacally, holding up his iPhone to take a picture of me. Luckily I got my middle finger up so my true feelings about the situation were documented forever.

Then he Facebook’d it.

Hate.

The last day of June, a day or two before we left for the Fourth of July to Monterey and Santa Cruz, The Boyfriend™ hosted a board game night. Just as we’re wrapping up, I got up to pee and returned from the bathroom trying to covertly clutch my abdomen. When everyone left, one long, pathetic cringe to The Boyfriend™ as I doubled over in pain had him grabbing his keys and shoving me into the car. More antibiotics were prescribed. For the next twelve days, food tasted like there were metal shavings cooked into it.

More importantly, this UTI went into my kidneys, which were swollen like rising bread with overly aggressive yeast in it. Eew. Yeast. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t walk upright––and we were leaving in two days.

After limping around the central NorCal coast for four days––not to mention having to sleep next to The Boyfriend™ and not getting any action––I returned to a week of peace (despite the metal taste in all my food). Nothing went wrong.

So the third week of July, when we were going to Lake Tahoe, the fourth organ went afoul: my brain stopped working normally and I was nothing but anxious. Twice now I’d gotten sick and made a mess of our vacations together, and we’d only been dating four months. And this was an important trip. The Boyfriend™ was swimming a relay across Lake Tahoe with all his high school buddies. I was nervous to meet them, he was nervous for me to meet them. He wanted me to like them and them to like me, and I really just wanted to not ruin the trip. I drank tons of water, I took cranberry tablets, I watched what I ate, I went to Bar religiously, I swore off any form of booze (so sad). Healthy. I was going to be excessively healthy.

Friday night in Tahoe The Boyfriend™ and I cooked dinner. He made this crazy gourmet macaroni and cheese, so of course I had to try some. An hour later I was throwing up and sobbing on the bathroom floor because it felt like my stomach was trying to digest a boulder. Humiliation.

I passed out only to wake up the next morning with that familiar sting in my abdomen. Off we went to the Tahoe ER in Truckee. The triage nurse asked me where it hurt and how much (“The bladder and about a six on the scale.”), and if I were allergic to anything (“Tylenol.”) and if I was on any medication (“Birth control and Flonase.”). I pissed in a cup and they took me back to a room a few minutes later. The Boyfriend™ was really happy to have a rocking chair to sit in. He kept rocking back and forth while I scowled at the white walls.

“This is much nicer than the other ERs we’ve been in,” he said, continuing to rock in the chair. Really, it was like a tour at this point. We should have developed a rating system. “How many hospitals put something this comforting in their ER rooms?”

Eyes narrowed. If I could have gotten my hands on a scalpel, my first action would be to cut my bladder out of me. My second, before I died of blood loss, would be to just randomly stab somewhere on the rocking chair for no reason whatsoever. And then randomly stab the IV machine because, holy fuck, did I hate that thing. I felt myself tremble at the mere sight of the long steel pole that held bags full of creepy liquid, like something out of Frankenstein’s lab. And that hose, that line that ran from the bag all the way down into a needle that every time they tried to poke into me, I’d throw up and faint. Yeah, I fucking hated those things, more than any rocking chair, PT Cruiser or Miley Cyrus song. If I took one out before I died, or even with me as my heart beat it’s last, my mission in life would be fulfilled. Christie, IV Assassin.

The nurse came in and said he would get me something for the pain. Hurray for Advil, because I really needed it. I couldn’t even sit down. For the twenty-minute drive to Truckee, I’d slouched in my seat to prevent bending at my waist, probably in a position that would have broken my neck had there been a car accident. And, honestly, I’d wanted to die during that drive because here we went again, having to tell yet another house full of people who were just meeting me, that I was trying to make a good impression on, that I was going to the ER for the third time in the mayfly span of our relationship.

I swallowed the two pills gladly when the nurse returned, thinking, “Please, antibiotics, please work fast.”

The Boyfriend™ asked, “What painkiller did you give her?”

“Percocet,” the nurse replied and left us alone.

I kept pacing while the boyfriend suddenly stopped rocking and looked uncomfortable. “This rocking chair is meant only for this room.”

“Yes, we’re in the ob/gyn room, darling.”

Possibly to feel extra manly because he was with me, obliviously sitting a rocking chair meant for people with babies, The Boyfriend™ pulled out his iPhone. “Percocet. Seriously, I think I should look that up for some reason, see what’s in it.”

I continued pacing back and forth, holding my abdomen as his phone made clicking noises. Mental note: randomly stab the iPhone after the rocking chair and the IV contraption.

“Stupid reception, I only got part of the site download––uh, sweetie?”

I groaned in response while leaning against the hospital bed. I felt weird, like all woozy, as if my limbs weren’t working, or even responding to what I wanted them to do.

“I think there’s Tylenol in Percocet.”

Then The Boyfriend™ bolted from the room, leaving me alone to panic. I forced myself to breathe. Surely they wouldn’t give me something with Tylenol in it. I saw the nurse write it down under “Allergies.”

The door swung open and The Boyfriend™ grabbed me, hugging me tight. “OK there’s Tylenol in it.”

I started crying (OK, and nearly hyperventilating).

“It’s OK, it’s OK. It’s going to be fine.” He hugged me tighter. “They have to give you an IV of Benadryl.”

Then I started shrieking because not only was I going to die from ingesting Tylenol, I would throw up and faint first. Images of nurses calling my death time but not removing the needle from my arm, leaving that bag attached to my cold corpse. I would raise from the dead and fucking yank it out of me, you motherfucking incompetent bastards who killed me!

The ER doctor came in with the nurse. “Really? You go into anaphylactic shock from Tylenol?”

“It’s not like I just get sleepy when I take it, what the fuck?! My throat closes up!” I muttering as the room started to spin.

The only thing good was that the Percocet made me too woozy to really resist. They put me down on the hospital bed while The Boyfriend™ made me keep looking at him while they shoved a needle into the top of my hand. Like a total pussy, I just kept sobbing. Not “I’m going to die, I’m going to die” but “I don’t want an IV, I don’t want an IV.” Yeah. Total pussy.

By the time they had the IV in me, I’m pretty sure I was floating off the bed. I mean, that’s a side effect of the Percocet, right? Where was this when we needed it, twenty years ago at slumber parties, because Light As a Feather, Stiff As a Board never worked? That thought disappeared quickly when my throat started getting tight and I had to gasp for air. That’s when I started thinking, “I love IVs, I love IVs, oh my fucking god, please give me another one!”

When all was cool, and my head kept wobbling one way, and then the other like I was some bobble head toy, The Boyfriend™ disappeared for what might have been a blink, or it might have been hours. I’m really not sure, but it was for however long it took him to eat a Snickers bar and return from the gift shop with a stuffed toy dog to cheer me up.

Then he exploited my woozy state: “OK, smile. We have to add this to our ER scrap book.” And somewhere, out there, is a picture of me looking higher than a member of a 70s rock band, lying on a hospital bed hugging a stuffed dog with this creepy smile on my face. As if the humiliation could get any worse.

Oh, but it did. Because I tried to go to the bathroom. The Boyfriend™ found me passed out on the floor, next to the toilet. I’m pretty sure I peed into the toilet because there was no puddle beneath me, but he had to drag me back to the bed.

We ended up spending most of the day at the ER, and The Boyfriend™ missed practicing with the team the day before the race. He swam Lake Tahoe with no warm up, while I waited on the beach with the rest of the girlfriends and wives. At the end of the day, we returned to the cabin where I found my skin resembled bricks: so dry it was almost crunchy and that lovely shade of red. I waddled around for about two weeks after that, unable to wear a bra.

No, I hadn’t forgotten to put on sunscreen throughout the day. I just hadn’t looked at the insanely powerful antibiotics’ side effects before venturing out in support of my wonderful man. They made me extra-sensitive to the sun, and in such a high altitude, I burned to a crisp. Crispy Christie. Yummy.

But nothing bad happened at Comic Con. And we’re going to Ashland, Oregon, for the Shakespeare festival this weekend. So far I’m peeing normally and with no pain (because you totally wanted to know that). There’s no Tylenol anywhere near me. But if I do end up sick or wounded somehow, I’m just going to fucking die because I am so tired of sitting around in ERs while on vacation.

I'm also tired of not being able to have sex while on vacation.

Hurray For Torture!

I haven’t been blogging because I’ve been playing World of WarCraft, I promise (wait, when the fuck did I become accountable to you all?). I moved. Gearing up for the move, actually moving, and then unpacking took its toll. But that just wasn’t enough suffering. I still need more.

So let’s discuss legal torture. Er. That needs clarification because this is just not a political blog. Okay so: legal, voluntary torture on American soil that is publicly acceptable.

You’re probably wondering, “How can this be?” but if you pause and consider, for a moment, all the people who attend Pentecostal and Baptist church on Sundays, suddenly it makes sense.

And then there’s the Bar Method.

The Bar Method is an exercise class. And while church is generally free (though somehow you get pressured into tithing, and not for that “luscious” tax break), the Bar Method is not. So, in fact, those who attend Bar Method classes pay someone to perform legal, voluntary torture upon them. No, no. That isn’t quite correct. It’s actually more psychologically fucked up than that. They pay someone to encourage them to participate in legal, voluntary, group torture. And they pay a lot. It’s like Scientology (hi, Holly), except the uniform doesn’t exactly resemble a Snuggie in Cult Member Red. Instead, it’s Lulu Lemon Athletica.

That’s right. When you attend these classes, they take amazing care of you. The incubu––er instructors often say such things as, “Bring your hips back a bit more––perfect form, beautiful,” while you’re actually thinking “Burning…burning…trembling…oh Jesus H. Christ motherfucker I’m goingtodiehelphelp consumed by flames in Hell being whipped by startlingly attractive and thin demons must return must have their bodies must…” Demons dressed in Lulu Lemon Athletica. And all around you, others with those lean, strong muscles who’ve been drinking this hell water for a much longer time, wear the stylish Snuggie-in-Disguise too…

So what is Lulu Lemon Athletica? It’s exercise clothing meant to last through the Apocalypse (or five years, whichever comes first). Say you’re being chased by Satan’s Hellhound Harbingers of Doom. If they happen to bite you in the ass, that shit won’t rip, and you can get away––for now. But…(index finger tapping your chin)...why…(eyes narrowing)…only if…(eyes widening in realization).

That’s right. You got it. All the portals leading from Earth directly into Hell are in the Lulu Lemon dressing rooms. And what they sell there isn’t super expensive athletic wear that sucks up your sweat while being of such a fine weave that it lasts through the flames of Hades. They sell exercise attire that preps you for your afterlife uniform while you’re still here on Earth! No wonder people work out and guzzle juiced wheat grass. You want to avoid Hell for as long as possible. Except the Devil is smart. He’s conditioning these people ahead of time for the flaying of skin and the weeping and the gnashing of teeth, because those are the things you feel and the sounds you hear at the Bar Method. Over the pumping Britney Spears remixes and the wooden flute yoga standards you sometimes hear a quiet whimpering or a sharp cry of pain, startling you out of position and reminding you of that contract you signed, the one about the studio’s “legal responsibilities” and such. That red pen was rather dark, wasn’t it? And when the room clears after an hour of contorting your body in ways God didn’t create it to move in, the room reeks of more than just sweat. Could that be the slight tinge of brimstone? And if eau d’evil doesn’t stay with you when you leave, the burning muscles, singed by Beelzebub’s touch, does. Leaving you virtually incapacitated. For days.

You want more evidence? Well, I don’t have “evidence” per se, but you can check out barmethod.com. I mean, look at those marketing pictures. We all know from Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups commercials that the Devil’s got Madison Avenue’s best working for him. No one can resist the chocolate-peanut buttery goodness of those things, not even the women in those photos. And in comparison to those women, you’ve been Slothful, you cow, with your vile Reese’s breath (eat more, cow! keep your bovine buddies employed!) You Envy their lean legs. Lust floods into your gut, making your stomach puff out until you realize that you NEED THOSE FLAT ABS. Wrath: because you can’t have them immediately; you must work for them, and work for them, oh, you will. You will. It has you running to the Lulu Hell Portal and delving into a Gluttony of fashionable Luon (trademarked combination of cotton, Spandex and Hellweave to soak up all that sweat from the flames). After all, the Devil wants his subjects looking good on the racks––and did I mention they have an actual rack there? Says so right on their website, so check it. Signing up for classes, you anticipate the Pride you’ll feel when other women gaze longingly at your incredibly shapely calves. And Greed? You’re going to do this alone. Don’t tell anyone, because you want to look better than all your friends who are still trapped, doing “mere” Pilates and yoga to tone their Madge-riffically flabby triceps.

But it’s all cool. After two weeks at this, my ass looks Beyoncé-licious in my Groove Crop II pants. Not to mention the litany of ab exercises at 9am Sunday mornings is much better than an actual litany. And, if we are truly soulless creatures, we better make sure our earthly bodies look damn good.