Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Minute Clinic. RIGHT NOW.

The other morning I woke up with a bladder infection (I'm aware that every man reading my blog just dropped off after that sentence). I tried doing some meditating and energy work on it to see if I could cure it without popping pills. Screw the western world and all the fucked-up pill-popping. I'm going holistic, dammit! To my astonishment, it worked.

For a day.

Today I woke up convinced that someone was pouring lava into my crotch. My bladder was pissed (literally and figuratively) and fought back. And won.

I played Paige's Nemo Memory game with her until Minute Clinic opened at 8:00. Tick, ouch. Tock, fuck. Tick, shit. Tock, motherfucker! So while I was totally preoccupied with my excruciating need to pee every three minutes, I was trying to remember where that fucking Nemo and Dora card is so I can make one pair to Paige's eighteen matched pairs of cards. She said, "Mom, how can you NOT remember where the match is? It's right here!"

I don't know where Nemo is, but I sure as hell know where the bladder infection is. For God's sake, why must women have to go through all the shit? We push watermelons out of our crotch, we menstruate, we get yeast infections (those are superfun), and of course urinary tract infections (what I call bladder infections). At this point, I'm ready to trade in my crotch for a penis. Honest to Christ, my husband pees pain-free and that right there is worth it.

Anyway, I raced to Minute Clinic after my intense game of Nemo Memory and I swear to God, the doctor was thirteen years old. He had braces and proceeded to pull out a handbook complete with Post-It Notes and writing from what I believe to be his college classes. Since he's my gatekeeper to the goods, I had to listen patiently (because I'm literally a patient, so patience is required). He explained every possible bacteria and what meds target which bacteria. We were figuring this out together.

I don't give a shit what targets what as long as something targets my pee zone. Give me M&Ms and call it a medication and let the placebo effect do its thing. I don't care about medical terms, side effects, and certain bacteria. I do care that I'm peeing liquid fire.

I wanted to grab tiny his wrist and march him over to the pharmacy like a mother scolding a child. I would have explained to the pharmacist that my son, er doctor, isn't understanding that I need to feast on every antibiotic available. Pronto.

Instead I waited until his incessant, insecure, rambling came to an end and he finally wrote out my beloved prescription. I ripped it out of his hands ran to the pharmacy where I tap, tap, tapped my fingers on the counter until the angel came forth with my shiny bottle of medicated goodness.

I don't care if he was thirteen and I was his first Minute Clinic client, I am grateful for that man/boy beyond belief. Yes, I could have held him on my hip while he wrote that prescription, but I don't care. I'm on my way to a pain-free life again and I owe it all to him

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