Transient Transplant

As I sat in doctor’s office for the first time in God knows how many years, I started to panic.

I decided that I should probably go in for a general physical after so many years, just to make sure I was on the up and up.

I loathe going to the doctor.  I’d say more than the average person.

My blood pressure and heart rate skyrocket, I have to explain why I’m just a weirdo that panics as well as essentially just a hypochondriac.  I’m a doctor’s nightmare of a patient.

Seeing as I haven’t been in so long, they took the opportunity to update me with a tetanus shot and tell me that I needed to get my blood drawn as well the normal poking and prodding and asking a thousand questions.

After holding my bladder for over an hour because I wasn’t sure if I’d have to give a urine sample, including one point while the doctor pushed on my stomach while I exclaimed if she did that again I would pee myself, I was relieved to finally be released to go get my bloodwork done and be out of there.

I ran to the restroom, peeing for what felt like 10 minutes, finally relieved of the pain from holding it in.  I was glad to get my blood drawn and get out of there.

I took the elevator to the lab downstairs, and announced myself as the person they sent from upstairs to give my blood.

The man who was in charge of draining me enthusiastically announced that they would need a urine sample as well.

I looked at him blinking in disbelief.

“I just peed.  I’ve been waiting forever and assumed when they didn’t want it upstairs they didn’t need it.”

“Oh,” he replied.  “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a bottle of water and you can just go after I take your blood.”

Like it was that simple.  Like on an average day I drank a bottle of water and just went straight to the bathroom 5 minutes later.

Ok, that isn’t too far off from an average day.  I have a tiny bladder.  Anyone who’s been on a road trip knows that you have to add plenty of time with me for bathroom breaks.

But I knew I’d just peed myself dry.  Plus the anxiety of peeing on command would stress me out and give me a nervous bladder and then I wouldn’t be able to.  It’s one of my many charming neurotic qualities.  I couldn’t take the pressure.

Like when someone tries to converse with me while in the adjacent stall.  I can’t pee and talk to you.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s because I’m bad at multitasking.  But it’s a fact of life that I can’t make it happen.

Blood Boy asked me which arm I’d prefer to be drained from.  I explained that I needed it in my left because I had a skeeball tournament that night and needed my dominant arm as solid as it could be.

Unfortunately he couldn’t find a vein in my left arm and opted for my right.  I wasn’t too thrilled about it, and he laughed it off, clearly thinking I was joking about the whole skeeball night.

It took all of three seconds, and to his credit was painless.  Then he gave me a bottle of water and told me to have a seat.  I chugged it, and then I waited.

I waited while he and his coworker made lunch.  I waited while they talked about roof racks and he thought she was talking about a disease he hadn’t heard of before.

After a bit, he told me I should go try to pee at least.  Like maybe I was a child and didn’t know when I actually had to pee or not.

So I begrudgingly marched to the bathroom with my piss cup marked with my name and date of birth, and locked myself in and made my best effort.

I couldn’t squeeze but a few drops out.  It stressed me out immensely to know that I could still hear them talking outside and likely knowing that they could hear me not peeing.

Was shy bladder a thing I could be diagnosed with?  Clearly I needed to go back and let them know that upstairs.

And what was I supposed to do now?  Walk back out with a few drops in a cup and sit and wait more?  No.  I refused to stoop to that level.

What irked me the most was that at no point in my life have I struggled to pee.  If anything I pee like 80 times a day.  If there were a Guinness book record for this sort of thing you’d see my picture next to it.

That’s when there was a knock on the door.

What are you supposed to say when someone knocks on the occupied door of the bathroom?  I’ve yet to figure that out in my adult life.

“Sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Oh,” Blood Boy’s coworker’s voice came echoing through, “I needed to make sure you didn’t pass out or something since you just had your blood drawn.”

“Christ,” I muttered to myself, now knowing I would not be peeing any more in the forseeable future.

I slid my piss cup into the fancy new Lazy Susan device in the bathroom to transport it to them.  Probably so I didn’t have to show my face and feel the shame.

I exited the bathroom, apologizing for the lack of pee and asking if that would be acceptable or if I’d be their prisoner until I could give them more.

Blood boy grabbed it and said, “that’ll do,” and released me from my own personal hell.

I marched out feeling a little worse for wear, but knowing I needed to go home, lick my wounds, and pull my shit together for skeeball.

Because I knew one thing for sure, if I had a bad skeeball night, Blood Boy would certainly be taking the blame.