This morning I woke up with a bladder so full and so threatening to empty its contents anywhere if I didn't rush it to the toilet that it brought back a memory that didn't amuse me at the time, but I find a little funny now. My bladder, as I may have mentioned before, gives me notice only when it is very full and I have about 5 minutes to get it to a place to release or it will take the choice from me and just do it itself. This lovely habit of my bladder has caused me some mild embarrassment in the past and I foresee many laughs with it in the future over this habit of his/hers (?). It also has a strange propensity to make my teeth hurt when it is really full and on the verge of release, which, strange as it sounds, is a good barometer of how much time I have left. The more my teeth start to hurt the less time I have, until I get to a good place to let go and my teeth return to normal. I wish I could say that I always make it to the proper place to do such things, but I can't. I am sure my big white arse has scared many a farmer when I had to pull over on the side of the road and drop my pants. Sometimes I have a little time to actually walk a ways from the road, others... not so much. One time I had to pee next to a dead fox with ticks crawling all over it and I get the heebie-jeebies whenever I remember that sight.
I think it was the 3rd time I was doing the steroids for an attack that took my pelvis for almost 3 months and only gave me back a much less sensitive one in return, that the following events transpired in. I was in my room lounging on the bed like a Greek goddess waiting for grapes to be dropped down my throat, when my teeth started the now-familiar song and dance -- and Kumbya it ain't. I quickly got off the bed and tried to untangle my IV tubes to be able to haul my IV stand with me. But, alas, the tubes were so hopelessly tangled and my bladder so full, that I gave it a good yank, pulling out my IV and releasing my bladder in one irritated move. I'm not sure if it is the some of the meds I am on, but I tend to be a bit of a bleeder. Blood splattered across the small room and started dripping everywhere, down my clothes, all over the floor, even on the bed. I hit the nurse button, but they were busy that morning and it took them awhile to get to me, by which time it looked like I had slaughtered a pig and urinated while doing it. I have to admit that I was glad that the steroids were falling to the floor -- it was several days into the treatment and I was sick of them; I didn't want anymore of that crap in my body. The nurses gave me some scrubs to wear, untangled me, started a new IV, and let me walk to the gift shop to see if I couldn't find something less hospital-y to wear. The gift shop was closed and I was so irritated and embarrassed, that I took my IV stand outside into the courtyard and had a smoke. There is something so odd (to put it mildly) about seeing someone in hospital garb, hooked up to an IV and smoking, that even I do double takes when I see it. Even though I was ashamed and embarrassed at the time, I am not anymore. Now it amuses me when I remember what that room looked like and how I must have appeared when the nurse entered -- and to their credit that did not act like it was anything to be ashamed of. Nothing like the smell of blood and urine, and if I am going to wet myself, I want it to be in grand style like that was. I don't know how I will ever top that performance.
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