There are a lot of moments in my life that I’m not proud of; or, I should say, lots of moments in my life that others react so shockingly to, that I pretend I’m equally as shocked and appalled at my behavior/misfortune/adventures. But usually, these moments don’t really faze me until someone is like “it’s not normal to consider it a ‘good travel day’ to take a train that caught on fire while you were on it to the airport, where you were then delayed for five hours.” And I’m like “It’s not? I was busy playing solitaire and dominating on my phone. I didn’t really notice.”
But there’s one relatively recent moment that got even me to admit that there are limits to what I’ll share with you guys. And that’s gotta’ tell you something. I’ve told you a lot. CB cringes all the time. And yet, after this one occurrence, I was like “I cannot ever, ever blog about this.” Partially because I apparently had a certain level of respect for myself, and partially because people at work might read this and then THEY’LL KNOW.
Notice that I used the word “had” in that second-to-last sentence? Self-respect is fleeting, you guys.
So, it starts with a pee jug, as most good stories do, and it ends with two more pee jugs. Which makes sense if you’re in my life.
You see, for several years I had high blood pressure – mainly because my body likes to prepare me for what it’s like to be old because I’m so close to acting elderly as it is, that we figured we’d just go ahead and get there sooner. But also because it’s hereditary and I like salt and yadda yadda yadda. But, since I actually didn’t want to die at 45, about a year and a half ago I changed my diet and exercise routine a bit and was able to marvel modern medicine by coming totally off of blood pressure meds because I’m amazing.
But when I got pregnant (since I’d had a “history of chronic high blood pressure” and I’m geriatric) they started monitoring me pretty closely during the sassy baby development process. Basically to make sure I didn’t stroke out and/or make the baby too big or too small, is the long and short of it. I read between the lines.
And part of this monitoring process is a torture device in the form of a giant, brown pee jug.
Here’s what you do: you pee into the jug – AND ONLY THE JUG – for a 24 hour period. You put your dignity and self-esteem in a box, kick it down the hallway, and never think about those two useless traits again. You use a lot of bleach-based products, as well as hand soap and sanitizer, and pretend like this isn’t totally ruining any sex appeal you possessed when describing in detail later to your husband what you were experiencing, even though he really, really didn’t want to know.
And also, you bring the jug to work because the doctors hate you.
You see, they told me that I had to start the next day. And the next day was Wednesday, a day where most adult people work. And I was like “Wait, so I have to bring the jug to work?” and they were all breezy about it, like that wasn’t ridiculous and embarrassing. I mean, they gave me a plastic bag to keep it in after all. Why did I have to be such a diva about it?
And so, because I was taught not to question authority, I packed up the pee jug the next morning, held onto it as if this was normal on the train, and went to work to lead my life like a person not carrying a jug of pee.
Can we think about this a minute? Where does the pee jug go in between visits? How does one covertly bring a giant white plastic bag into the bathroom with them and then try to pretend like people can’t tell that you’re peeing into a big, hollow jug that makes big hollow peeing-into-it noises?
And so you use the private handicap-accessible bathroom so that you have some dignity and privacy, people.
What you also do is fast-forward a few hours to where you bring your pee jug back into the bathroom for a visit and realize that you may have not secured the lid tightly last time and so, yes, the bag is now holding some contents itself. Not in the jug.
And then you quit your job, change your name, and never speak to anyone who knew you pre-jug again.
OR you panic. You stare. You get hormone-tears in your eyes for what’s happening. And you immediately realize that you should always question authority, especially when they tell you to bring your pee jug to work.
I’m going to spare you the details and just skip ahead to the part where I throw the jug in a dumpster, sanitize everything I’ve ever owned or touched, and call the doctor’s office to consult.
Me: “So, I need a new pee container.”
Nurse: “You need a new container?”
Me: “Yes. Something happened to my other one.”
Nurse, sounding confused: “Ok…..”
Me: “I don’t want to gross you out, but basically I lost a morning’s-worth of pee and need to start again.”
Nurse, sighing into the phone: “Well ok……you’ll need to come back to the office to get another receptacle.”
RECEPTACLE! Much nicer word than pee jug. Noted.
Me: “Ok, no problem, I’ll come by at lunch.”
Fast forward to 2 hours later when the nurse met me in the waiting room with a new “receptacle” and brand new white plastic bag and gave me side-eyes while saying: “Now be careful with this one.”
Dear Judge-y Nurse,
You have no idea what I’ve gone through to collect my pee for you people. GIVE IT A REST. I’m building life and just trying to keep it together.
Oh, also, I did it over the weekend that time because they can suck it and I’ll never bring that thing to work with me ever again. It’s called dignity, people. I found it that day at the bottom of that white plastic bag.
However, I put this all behind me, didn’t blog or breathe a word of it (except to pretty much all of my friends), and acted like I was still the lady I’ve pretended to be for years.
UNTIL THIS WEEK. When the jug returned.
Me: “Noooo…..I have to do this again?”
Sympathetic doctor: “Yeah, I know it sucks, I’m sorry. But we just have to check your protein levels again. It’s the last time.”
Me: “Oh man, this thing haunts me.”
Doctor, laughing because she thought I was kidding.
Me: “I’m going to do it over the weekend, if that’s ok?”
Doctor: “Sure, that’s fine. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.”
SEE, Judge-y Nurse? THAT’S how you talk to a hormonal pregnant woman with a pee jug. TAKE NOTES.
Anyway, you’re welcome, blog readers. I’ve literally just shared the most embarrassing thing I’ve done since at least 2014. And that’s saying something. So feel good about yourselves and be grateful that you don’t actually know me in person.
|You haunt my soul, pee jug.|