How Sexy Is My Bladder?

About two years ago, after moving to the good ole city of plastic angels, I had a revolutionary thought:

“Fuck. I should probably drink some water.”

Duh. I know – we’ve all had the recurring thought that we need to be drinking MORE water, but I’m talking I wasn’t drinking ANY water. As in, ya girl has lived off of Diet Coke since she was thirteen.

Granted, this groundbreaking idea did come to me while having a mini panic attack over a new and deeply devastating wrinkle…but none-the-less, I am now drinking 810 glasses of water a day. Yay health!

However, with this increase in good-for-me liquid came a problem. A pee problem.
I was peeing about every 30 minutes. And not just a small amount. A nice, fair share of tinkle.

OH, TMI? IDFC BRAH, WE ALL PEE.

So I went to my doctor, and after inspecting me on the inside & outside–and after assigning me to create a super sexy log where I had to record all the times and liquid amounts of my pees –she referred me to a Urologist.

On the day of my appointment I was anxious, but more importantly, excited! “YAY! I’LL FINALLY BE ABLE TO SIT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOVIE THEATER ROW AGAIN! NO MORE RUNPEE FOR ME!” (If you don’t know what that is yet…you’re welcome: runpee.com)

Unfortunately…things didn’t go as I’d hoped.

The day of the Urology appointment, I was feeling pretty. And I don’t mean a new outfit, hair-on-fleek, three-inch heels pretty – I mean I felt pretty in my own skin. I was tan from a recent trip and picked out a white shirt that I felt complimented my bronze shoulders well. My face was bare, save for some highlighter and lip gloss. This newfound confidence had me keeping eye contact with strangers all day!

When the Urologist walked into the examination room and saw me, he immediately perked up. He was in his late 60’s, I’d say, with white hair and hunched shoulders. He asked me what the problem was, and after answering a few of his questions and my explaining that I’d been examined by my doctor internally, he decided he wanted to “feel around in there for himself.” He then walked out of the room with a satisfied smile on his face.

But I provided him with my doctor’s notes from all those examinations a couple days prior…

A little buzzer went off in my head, so I turned to his female assistant, who was just about my age, and asked, “Why? Why does he need to feel around in me if my doctor just did. Is there some kind of advanced machine or other technology that he’ll be using?”She seemed to completely understand my confusion and left to ask him.

He stormed back in the room with an angry face and impatient tone. “What’s the problem?! I already told you what I wanted to do!” I replied that I understood but I just wanted some clarification.
And the man laughed at me. A single, mocking, “Ha!” As if my wanting to know why he was going to put his hands inside of my body was a bad joke.
I insisted that it was my right to know; that it was my body.
He told me he understood that my doctor, whom his office is affiliated with, did the internal examination already, but he needed to check for himself.

His defensiveness and anger at my simple question turned this slightly fishy vibe to full on Seaworld status for me. Guilty people get defensive. Not honest people. Not people who have your best interests in mind.

Although something didn’t feel right, I said yes.

After he left, the nurse handed me a sheet with which to cover my naked body. She could tell I was uncomfortable. I looked to her and asked, “Does he usually do internal examinations for cases like this?” The problem seemed to be coming from my bladder or urethra not my lady tunnel. “No,” she replied, “he doesn’t usually do this. Normally a physical examination like this, based on your symptoms, is only performed on men.”

The voice in my head grew louder. SOMETHING FEELS WEIRD. And my discomfort showed on my face. “I know,” the nurse said, “he’s weird and this is weird.”

I should have thrown on my clothes and stormed out right then and there.

But, I’m ashamed to say – I didn’t. I opened my naked legs right in front of his face, and as he felt around inside of me and took it all in, I looked out the window.

I hated this man for putting me in this position, and hated myself even more for letting this happen. I felt so uncomfortable and disgusting in my own body. All I could do was stare into the sun and imagine myself on the other side of that glass. In the warmth, with my tan skin, my smile, my pride.

After it was over, a slight gleam of victory in his eye, he said he found nothing abnormal, tossed me some pills, and had me on my way.

My mom said certain specialists want to check these things out for themselves sometimes just to make sure… which I totally get. But in my personal experience of that event, something didn’t feel right – the doctor’s anger and defensiveness, the nurse’s seemingly untrusting opinion of him and his actions, and the fact that she told me point blank that this was unusual – was unusual.

I wish I would have listened to that little voice in my head, because she knows more than society, or even I would like to give her credit for sometimes. Maybe it’s because I’m scared of being “paranoid.” Maybe it’s that I’m scared of causing “something out of nothing” and embarrassing myself. Maybe I’m scared shitless of being accused of being the hysterical female stereotype, and the guilt-tripping, and the slut shaming, and, well, the list goes on and on. I’m not sure what it was.

But I do know that in the future I will tell others to S.T.F.U. and I will allow my little voice to be heard. I will be conscious of and in-tune with her. And the next time she shouts NO, for whatever reason, whether you think she’s right or not, I will sure as hell listen.

 

By Sarah Cortez, Guest Contributor

Want to connect with Sarah? Instagram: scortez27 // Facebook: thesarahcortez

Artwork by Michaela Heidemann

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