Then I had a very exciting year where I only had like one or two -- both managed by the sort of drugs given to people who accidentally touch Anthrax.
During my winter physical, I bragged to my not-unattractive male doctor:
"It's been like a year," I exclaimed. Like I should get some sort of coin-sized marker to carry in my pocket.
So then I got one in June. Then I got one in July. Then I got another one in later July. This is really fucking with my average. Not to mention that I think when you hit 8-12 in a year they actually remove your kidneys, and run them through a car wash before returning them to their original location. The actual urinary tract is treated to something akin to beer bonging, then re-laced. (These are not necessarily the medical descriptions).
This one arrived on Sunday, skipped Monday, and then came back with a vengeance on Tuesday. I couldn't get in to see my not-unattractive male doctor until Wednesday. He must get a full-body cringe when he sees me fetal positioning in his office. Much like my own full-body cringe when I try to make water.
We bantered a bit, the way only a wary doc and his chronically infected patient can. Verbal high-fives and jokes about organs. I explained the genesis of my most recent go-round and he said with a straight face:
"... And so if this Erythromycin doesn't work, maybe you should think about becoming a nun."
He went on to explain the side effects of this medication, a new one for me: Stomach aches, loose stool ...
"So you're saying I might lose weight?" I asked.
"I'm saying you might have loose stool," he said. "And next time ... please don't brag about how you haven't had a urinary tract infection for a year."
So I've been on this for four days. I'm still alternately pouring tap water down my throat, and cringing as I expel it. Last night my stomach felt like I'd been eating firecrackers. I went to bed at 11:30 a.m., completely missing my Friday night ritual of 6 consecutive episodes of "Criminal Minds," while eating Golden Grahams. I've also adopted a limp as an outward indicator that I am in pain. It's important people know so they don't ask me to do things like be nice to them or make dinner.