Seriously, I've got to get it together!
But this time I have a harrowing tale to tell, I assure you. Somewhere in the midst of that Fourth of July weekend I just wrote about, I started feeling weird. Without going into too much detail (I'm sure you don't want to know!) I couldn't quite convince my bladder that it was empty. I thought it was UTI, a conclusion I came to on Monday night. In the morning, I made an appointment, trudged over there, got my prescription, and thought we'd call it a day.
Nope.
More abdominal pain--the tear-inducing kind--and we're back at the doctor's. Different doctor this time, who is actually listening to what I say. It's a nice change. Anyway, she is like "Bladder infection? I think we should check for something more..." Apparently, all the urine cultures in the world won't save you from a CatScan if they keep coming back negative. No infection anywhere. Bloodwork - negative. CatScan - negative.
I guess that's good news, since we ruled out kidney stones and tumors... yikes. It was still frustrating to be sent home without a diagnosis and a "Hope it gets better!"
Nope.
This was starting to feel like an episode of "House." For real. So on Thursday I went--surprise!--BACK to the doctor. Another new person, who at least spoke to the person who saw me the day before (are you following this?!) and was super nice. She decided it must be diverticulitis, even though the CatScan said no such thing. "It's a mild case... maybe." The only way to prove the diagnosis was the get ANOTHER dose of radiation, which my ovaries aren't up for right now. I would like to use them again some day. So I took my super duper antibiotics and went on my merry way.
And I continued to drink copious amounts of Gatorade. The pain was background noise now and I was starting to get a little Google-happy... For the record, never Google anything medical. Ever.
On Friday, I saw my actual doctor--or at least, my OB--who wanted to make sure this wasn't some kind of fallout for obstetrical reasons. (Thank goodness they take c-sections seriously, at least.) It wasn't. Which was good.
Instead, he told me all about this awesome condition called "detrusor instability" or "stress incontinence." In layman's terms, I have been so stressed out that my sympathetic nervous system thinks it's cool to squeeze my bladder. You know, just cuz it's fun. I did not know such a thing existed. It does. And it is very real. And very painful.
So now I'm taking anti-spasm medication for my bladder (because I'm ninety-freakin'-five years old or something) and it hurts less than before. Of course, every time I get stressed (often) it starts to flare up (ouch). Oh OH and the best part? I also have IBS. This, too, flares up under stress.
Hooray for my digestive system! Hooray for my urinary system! My body hates me!
I, literally, have been prescribed chill pills. When your doctor says, "Take this pill for two weeks and do some yoga" it's not cool.
And THAT, ladies and gentleman, concludes my over-sharing for the day. It also constitutes one helluva wake up call.
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