Yesterday I got stuck in a nasty flashback from the past…
The pelvic ultrasound.
I had four or five of them during my pregnancy years. Ab-so-lute-ly excruciating. Moms, you know why, right? Because at a time when a little, extra human hanging around in your body forces you to run for a pee four times an hour anyway, you’re forced to drink 32 ounces of water in a short period of time and HOLD IT for an hour or so.
Compounding that joy, for me, was the fact that I was prone to bladder infections, and at one point was even diagnosed with something called interstitial cystitis, which is basically chronic bladder pain/discomfort.
**As an aside, I feel confident that if there were more women in the field of medical technology, there would shortly be an instrument invented that would perform a pelvic ultrasound without requiring the torture of the subject.**
Anyway, it was all brought back to me yesterday when Middle had to go in for an ultrasound to check out suspected ovarian cysts. She came to my office straight from school, to hang out while she forced down a gigantic bottle of water. Then she went to the hospital for the procedure and I went home.
And waited, squirming, for an hour and a half. Remembering that horrendously painful experience. Worrying that she was in the same kind of misery. And, of course, concerned about what we’d find out about the cysts that were being imaged.
I think I ran to the bathroom at least four times in that hour and a half. Sympathy pee.
Thankfully she finally got home, perfectly cheerful. No big deal, she said.
HUGE sigh of relief. And I didn’t have to pee again for hours.