Dirty Jobs: (Don't be Pissed at Me For This One)

For all of you who were jealous of my TUESDAY, here's a little glimpse into my MONDAY. It might relieve a few of those jealousy pangs.

Ok. It's the bodily fluid post. Everybody does one eventually. Possibly not for the squeamish - proceed with caution. You've been warned.

On Monday I underwent the procedure known as a Urodynamic Evaluation. If you hear it without reading it it sounds sort of neat. Seeing the words in print makes it a little less so. Understanding the procedure itself makes it exponentially less so.

The Free Medical Dictionary defines it as:

a battery of clinical tests used to assess neuromuscular responses of the bladder to filling and emptying.

I don't think you'll be needing more than that. I might inadvertently give you a little more, though. Sorry in advance.

So to assess those neuromuscular responses, the nurse inserts a couple catheters. Yes I said a couple. I'll spare you more details. For now, at least, no promises.

This involves a torture chair of sorts.

I really didn't start this post with the intent of forcing you to visualize - stuff.

So I'm UP in this chair - I mean high up! And sort of half inverted. And the nurse says something about a fellow she had last week and I'm thinking "Holy crap! Boys do this, too? Oh dear, that can't be com..." she interrupted my thought train - or perhaps completed it - by saying, "of course a woman's urethra is only about an inch and a half long, whereas a man's is considerably longer." Heck yeah, it is! (my brain said).

So as the procedure went on - and it took almost an hour - every time I thought about how uncomfortable I felt - both physically and emotionally - I thought about how it would be way worse if I were a boy. And I took a little comfort in that. Usually boys just have nothing to compare to our uncomfortable procedures. This was - well - new.

As the test went on, I was supposed to tell her when, if I were on a road trip, I'd start looking for the next rest stop. I told her. She didn't let me pee.


She told me to tell her when I was getting pretty desperate for a rest stop. I told her. She didn't let me pee.


She told me to tell her when I'd need to pull over and duck behind the bushes. That was the part - the imaginary part, anyway - where I thought, well, we're back to the boys having it easier again. I told her and she said I could pee. IN A MINUTE. As soon as she set up this beer bong sort of apparatus under the chair, closed the curtain for privacy, then started a little tabletop fountain for modesty. Then she left the room.

Now this woman had recently inserted various catheters into various orifices and taped them down. She had just pumped my bladder full of liquids taking the direct route, all the while chattering cheerfully with me as an attempt at distraction. But she thought maybe I'd be too shy to PEE in front of her? She'd just made me admit I would've peed on the side of a busy highway by this point. I would've gone out in the lobby and peed in front of the reception desk at this point. But no, I got a privacy curtain and a little fountain.

As I waited for her to return, I wondered: What sort of person goes through their rotation in nursing school and gets to this part and says, "Yeah. This is what I want to do every day for the rest of my life."

Which was sort of a natural progression to "Mike Rowe should totally do this for his show."


Which led me to being alternately horrified and thrilled by the prospect of her coming back through that door with Mr. Rowe in tow.

See? My life isn't ALL freebies and funk. Sometimes it's downright pissy.