What in the name of Cornelius Yukon?
WARNING: Dad (and anyone else who doesn’t love TMI), I’m about to talk about lady stuff. Let this serve as your exit door.
I’m happy to announce that I’ve gotten my first UTI. That’s right, at 54 years old, I’ve finally turned into a real woman. Evidently, this is some sort of lady bits miracle and, therefore, doesn’t warrant much sympathy from my girl gang. Evidently, this streak only warrants cries of “Your first?!?!,” or “How have you never had a UTI?” or “I’ve basically had a UTI since high school.”
I had no idea that my flower was such a late bloomer. I do remember a handful of college friends making the trek to student health for nuclear cranberry juice but, well, they were blooming in other ways so I just assumed I was in the clear thanks to a lack of suitors.
Apologies for my super star abilities to avoid this junk-joy for over five decades. I guess my lady bits lean toward pristine, just like my personality. No, no need to comment. I know that UTI’s are not the product of grime in the land down under. It’s just that when you open the door to the interwebs to flush out symptoms and causes and digital diagnoses, well, it’s an interesting rabbit hole.
It’s a funny thing when you experience a common (apparently) malady for the first time. The UTI kind of arrived with a whisper, went away, whispered again, went away, and then sent up a very red flare. Those first two whispered warnings did not go unnoticed, but I engaged a tactic used by mothers in the 70’s: A good night sleep should fix it.
It did not and, so, I did the next most logical thing which was to grab a UTI test strip to see if it showed anything worthy of a phone call to the doctor. It did not, though I feel I should mention that this test strip was actually meant for testing dogs or cats.
The results? Incon-mewsive.
When the whisper turned to a red alert, I began to panic as I was set to leave on a (another) trip in a matter of hours. The struggle of getting a same-day doctor’s appointment seemed monumental and the idea of killing hours at urgent care the day before departure was overwhelming.
The good news? I was able to grab a spot at Minute Clinic while waiting for a return call from my actual doctor who, thankfully, had me drive right to the office after listening to a garbled, panicky message. Eurethra!
Five days and nine servings of antibiotics later, I am still searching for the sympathy vote but evidently the follow-up explanation of “The doctor thinks I just got really dehydrated in Alaska” doesn’t help.
“Your first UTI? And you got it while exploring Alaska? Please, don’t talk to me.”
Yes, my first.
Zero Stars. Do not recommend.
Am I a woman now?