Funny thing, blogging. I’ve had a diagnosis of PCOS for at least seven years, but never mention it on the blog. Last entry, I beseech the Lord above to give me a different syndrome after I find an annoyingly named forum for women with PCOS. On Monday, I walked into the doctor’s office thinking that I had PCOS and walked out with something else entirely.
The Heavenly Father apparently reads blogs in His downtime. Who knew?
The new syndrome, which I may or may not have, requires me to pee into a bucket for 24 hours. Really, it’s not a bucket, more like a pee specimen container that was undoubtedly designed for the convenience of 49% of the population (aka pointers not setters) and in actuality due to its coloring, looks remarkably like a Minute Maid juice jug. But I prefer calling it my bucket. My bucket of pee. Pee bucket, if you will. Yes, I am eight years old.
For what it’s worth, I doubt I have this syndrome either, but I’m not taking any chances and consulting Dr. Google, as I fear what I may find. Something that makes “soul cysters” seem like an island of sanity, no doubt.
Also, at the appointment, one of the doctors doesn’t pronounce his th sounds correctly, so they come out as d sounds. Every time he talked about duh tests and how we would den know what we were dealing with, I had to fight uncontrollable urges to roll my eyes. And who knows, dat may or may not be a symptom of the unmentionable syndrome, but we shall see after I fill my bucket.
Which I’m about to. Apparently I pee a lot. Who knew? Esteban on road trips, that’s who. I’m never going to hear the end of this, now that we have scientific proof.
Seriously, there’s maybe 8 ounces of room left in my bucket and I’m only on hour 21. And I just had a very good dinner with a glass of red wine, plus a glass of water afterward. With the grace of God (shoutout!), the salt in the marinated sirloin will see me through, but it’s going to be a close call. It’s bad enough that I haven’t been able to go very far from the house all day because my bladder was on a leash, but truthfully, I fear the next three hours will find me defying the bucket, and I have no idea what to do at that point. Creativity, it seems, would not come into play when dealing with buckets of one’s own urine. Also, do I really pee way too much or something? I mean, I’m assuming if they gave me the Minute Maid juice container thingy, it’s because that suffices for most patients. Do they have people bringing in their topped off specimen, and then also an auxiliary Tupperware container? Isn’t this why I have really expensive insurance, so that someone figures these things out ahead of time? Gah. My life, she is exciting.
The first month with the new car has been a treat, although I still have the M in our driveway, which is a little sad, because I drive up to the house and the M still looks shiny and pretty and I feel really guilty for buying a car with worse gas mileage. Also, for you schadenfreudians in the audience, the new car has been through three hail storms, including one so bad that I thought it was going to start raining frogs. Ah, through the magic of the digital age, I don’t have to write about it, you can be there with me.
I wasn’t filming during the really impressive part of the snow, sadly, but the hail was so hard and loud that I truly expected to start seeing spider webs of broken glass appear on the windshield. End result: two scratches, one so huge that you can see it from twenty feet away, plus a ding in a metal whatever thingy. Do you think that God felt bad about that and therefore granted my wish about the syndrome? Damn it, I should have held out for a significantly smaller ass. And also, Johnny Depp dressed like a pirate.