June 7, 2013
My bladder is letting me
down. Now I understand that I have to get up, struggle down the wide open space
to the hallway, through several doors, around the corner, in time to unbutton,
unsnap, unzip and swing around to ungracefully grasp the sink ledge to plop
down on the commode even before I
realize I have to urinate. There is absolutely nothing graceful about it and I
find myself yowling in frustration, more often than not, because I have not
“made it” in time. I strip off my pants or shorts, and underwear with disgust
and fury at my enemy, the bladder. The loss of control infuriates me. There is
utter helplessness when my body starts to let me down. The clothes in the
hamper then pile up and I begrudge the need to shuffle down, accompanied by my
peg, and my bladder, to the basement and start the laundry. It is one thing to
drag the basket behind me down the staircase and yet another to haul it the opposite
direction.
My bladder puts me at an
even greater disadvantage when I am riding in the car, heading out of town, or
simply across town. Am at its mercy. My foot has to be perched on the seat next
to me like a hateful cousin or ungracefully on the dash, still wrapped in a
large bandage to keep the wounds sterile and dry. Keeping hydrated and iced is
imperative, fulfilling my foot physical therapy exercise quota is also a
necessity while worrying about financial matters, checking emails and glancing
at job on-line perhaps three times per week. The home internet company has yet
to relay any further information about the connection request and the modem has
gone AWOL.
My bladder is my companion
in these few days flying solo and I resent its movie choices. What can I do?
The library is too daunting a journey and I may not make it there without having
to use the bathroom.
In the meantime, I refuse
to wear Depends.
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