Pissed

PISSED                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

         My bladder was once normal and so was I for that matter. It never complained and at times, it seemed to have muscles of steel. Quietly and efficiently, this organ worked as it was supposed to work. Urinating was like breathing, a necessary and uncomplicated bodily process. It just happened with no questions asked. I didn't give it a second thought or even any thought. Out of sight was out of mind.          

         My complexion, my hair, and my weight were always more demanding of my immediate attention. Preoccupied with pimples to banish, wrinkles to erase, grey hair to camouflage, and jiggly love handles to tighten, I literally dealt with only that which I could see and touch. My physical appearance was the eminent distraction.                                                                                                    

         Was I slim and glowing at my wedding? Was I bloated during two pregnancies? Was I again thin and "normal" after two childbirths? Did my socks match? Did I remember to wear socks? Was my hair brushed? What should I wear today? Did I look great when I reached and surpassed the thirty-years young watershed?                                                                                                              

         Through all of this, my bladder was a patient, hardworking soldier. It sailed, rolled, and sometimes floated with the extra demands I blithely cast upon it. Why, where, or how my dependable bladder disappeared, I do not know. The when was a gradual dawning, a creeping realization that all was not as it once had been.                                                                                                              

         Suddenly, there were all-too-frequent and frantic dashes to a bathroom, any bathroom. No more strolling, no more delaying, no more in a minute, no more just one more peek, or one more word, or one more chapter, no more after this period, or at the next highway stop. It became a very urgent "call of nature", right here, right now. No negotiating or compromising was permitted.                              

         My mature, steadfast, reliable bladder was inexplicably replaced with a cranky, whiny, demanding, impatient, and bratty toddler. It would, without any provocation whatsoever, kick and scream, throwing itself into a temper tantrum; disrupting anything and everything I was doing. It wouldn't or couldn't wait. Wetting "accidents" were inevitable.                                                            

         Travelling with this little monster required planning and preparation. Extra clothing had to be packed and bathroom locations mapped. Shopping forays were executed as quickly as possible with crossed fingers. No browsing or loitering were tolerated. Casual walking was cancelled. Physical activity became iffy. Living with this uncooperative brat forced me to retire from my job. I became a prisoner in my own home.                                                                                                                        

         I am pissed. I am frustrated. I am tired. My baffled family doctor is alarmed by my deterioration. I was once full of piss and vinegar, but now I'm just full of piss, all the time. Most of my vinegar; my get up and go, has gone. What I do have left, I try to reserve for the endless rounds of testing and doctors' visits.                                                                                                                                  

         Visits, what a misnomer. There's nothing enjoyable or the least bit recreational about these medical appointments. Most doctors have dismissed me and my "pissitis". Don't drink caffeine. Drink less fluids. Your bladder is shy. Your bladder is immature. Try emptying it completely. Try Kegel muscle-strengthening exercises. You're too emotional. You're hysterical. No..... I am pissed. This is not my bladder. It won't listen to me.                                                                                                    

         Finally, a specialist has heard me and decided to run tests. With patient questioning, he discovers that I stumble and fall. Actually, this happens all the time. I've accepted it as being a consequence of our family "clumsy" gene. Bruises are a fact of life. Who wouldn't trip or tumble, at least sometimes, in their desperate haste to reach a bathroom?                                                            

         Armed with this new clue or symptom, the specialist orders an MRI and a stay in the hospital. I am bed-bound wearing Depends. The coy nurse who wraps me in it, uses this code name, as if I wouldn't realize that I am wearing an adult diaper. What marketing genius baptized a diaper with this name? I do not want to be dependent. The need for this type of protection doesn't depend upon the weather or depend upon my mood. My uncontrollable, inexplicable, and yes, undependable bladder has foisted this ultimate humiliation upon me.                                                                                                    

         I want to scream and cry, maybe strike something, but that will only soak my diaper. I'd laugh at my futile absurdity, yet that too would cause me to wet myself. Wet myself, pee, piss,..... I miss being an adult who urinates. Today, the harried nurse that answered my urgent buzzing of the call button, asked me, "Do you have to pee?" I wanted to yell, "NO. I'm a big girl who doesn't pee. I urinate." What's the use? I was squirming in a squishy wet diaper and I needed her assistance. Tears are threatening to choke me. I am just so completely, utterly, maddeningly, and exhaustingly pissed.                                        

         Being angry helps me to endure the MRI process. I've been promised an answer, so the small tight space and the interminable wait are tolerable. The incessant loud noise is temporary. More than once, I've been admonished to stop moving. I'm not aware of conscious movement. On my back and strapped in, how could I move? Apparently, my legs twitch. Is this another symptom or nervousness?          

         Maybe it's both. Now the specialist has appeared to deliver a diagnosis. He assures me that his finding is definitive. There is no longer any doubt or any other possibility. My "pissitis", my lack of coordination, my clumsiness, and my twitching, are all co-conspirators. I learn that I have Multiple Sclerosis, or more accurately, Multiple Sclerosis has taken me hostage. I am still pissed.