Sad box

So.

I've been trying to figure out how to tell you about the resolution of my wee box problem for about a week now, and I'm not really coming up with anything. So instead, I'll just tell you in the least grody way possible.

So after the "you're just wiping too hard" incident, I went to my lady parts doctor for a second opinion. His first opinion? "That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He is the stupidest urologist ever. What is his name? Dr. Stupid Urology?"

After this spite-filled (but quite true) rant, we got down to business. One exam later, I finally had the answer to a question that has been burning (yes, pun intended) inside me for almost a year:

Vulvodynia.

I have vulvodynia. Which, apparently, is a fancy term for "depressed lady parts."

Long story short, something in my brain short-circuited after that first bladder infection-- apparently, the only bladder-related issue of this entire ordeal-- and caused my lady parts to go all out of whack, simulating a bladder infection, but not actually being one. They are, in short, depressed.

The best way to treat this problem, apparently, is with extremely old-school anti-depressants from the seventies. Because the new anti-depressants are too weenie and smooth-jazz to snap my lady parts out of their funk.

In addition, I am now required to wear only white cotton underthingies, refrain from using fabric softeners and harsh soaps, and keep horse-back riding to a minimum.

Also, I am expected to blow dry my lady parts with a hair dryer, to avoid the harsh contact that apparently comes from use of a clean fluffy towel.

I'm not doing this part. I don't even blow dry my hair.

So far, things have been going quite well. My lady parts seem to be cheering up quite nicely, and I no longer have to worry about my wee box.

I do, however, have to worry about the fact that I just willingly wrote the word "vulvodynia" on my blog, in reference to myself. A blog that my thirteen-year-old cousin reads.

Sorry, Katie!

Not to fear...

...the wee box story is coming-- I'm just thinking of the best way to phrase it without being totally gross. Here's a hint for those of you who watch Sex & The City, though-- Charlotte had it.

Mystery solved

After three weeks' postponement, I finally had my cystoscopy today (those of you coming to my site looking for an answer to the age-old question "What happens during a cystoscopy?" will be glad to learn that it really ISN'T as bad as you think... honest!) And the doctor says there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my bladder at all, and has come to the conclusion that ALL my wee box troubles of the last year are caused by…

Are you ready?

…Me wiping too hard.

Seriously? You might have mentioned that possibility to me BEFORE the CAT scan and ultrasounds and four rounds of antibiotics.

So, thus ends a year-long chapter of my life totally devoted to my excretory system... not with a bang, but with a Whipple.

(Oh, my God. I just made a Mr. Whipple joke. Please come to my house and kill me now.)

Phone Calls From the Doc

Dear Varied Medical Personnel With Whom I Am Currently Affiliated,

I thought perhaps you might need a reminder of when is and is not a good time to call me with information that might directly impact my health.

For instance:

Do call when the results of my CT scan come back abnormal. This is information that would be most helpful in Preventing My Possible Death. Do not make me call you for this information.

Conversely, do not call me with the same information a few days later because no one marked it on my chart. All you are doing at that point is ruining a perfectly good trip to Walgreen's.

Do not call me forty-five minutes before a scheduled doctor's appointment to tell me exactly what the doctor is going to say to me in said appointment. This serves only to make me late for the very appointment that I will already know the entire content of.

Also, when I leave three messages with your answering service, do call me back to let me know that the fax from the urologist that I am so desperately checking on has, in fact, arrived; without this fax, there is no point in me coming to the appointment that I already know the entire content of.

And while this actually has no relation to the telephone aspect of doctor-patient communication, do not make me look retarded by checking on the whereabouts of said fax, the fax that was supposed to say that my uterus was probably going to fall out, when it turns out that, when interpreted by a proper doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my uterus at all, rendering the entire appointment I already know the entire content of totally irrelevant.

I really am sorry that all I can write about lately is the doctor, but this entire situation is starting to wear on me. More photographs have been taken of my insides this year than my outsides, and still, it hurts when I wee.

What is a cystoscopy?

NOTE! This entry is about my wee box problems. If you do not like excessive use of the word "urethra," or would prefer not to know what a cystoscopy actually entails, preferring to remain forever in the dark about the horrors of having your urinary tract checked out via tiny camera, you should probably not read this. Don't say I didn't warn you.

A verbatim account from the office of Dr. X., Urologist:

Cystoscopy is a procedure that is used to visually inspect the bladder and the urethra (tube leading out of the bladder). This can be done in most instances without discomfort by the use of a local anesthetic jelly (not a shot)!! You will be placed on a special table with your legs in special stirrups. The end of the urinary channel (or urethra) will be cleaned and a local anesthetic placed into the urinary channel for a few moments. The cystoscope (or telescope) is passed into the bladder and the inspection is carried out. The entire exam takes less than ten minutes. Afterwards, you might expect a little discomfort while voiding and perhaps a spot of blood for a day or so. A warm bath helps to relieve this irritation and will wash off the soap we've used to prep the area. You may receive some antibiotics for a few days afterwards. Ask if you have questions-- it's not as bad as you think-- honest!

I find several things wrong with this:

1. Does the fact that the anesthetic jelly is "not a shot!!" impress anyone else? It does not impress me.

2. I am also not impressed that there will be a "special table," or that my legs will be in "special stirrups." This does not make me feel special. It makes me feel really, really disgusting.

3. The word "telescope" should never be used in conjunction with my wee box. Not ever.

4. I don't void. I pee. And I already have this problem. So it's awesome that the test I'm getting to find out why I have this problem is going to make it worse.

5. They're going to just leave soap on my "area"? You don't just leave soap on anything!

6. The phrase "it's not as bad as you think-- honest!" leads me to believe that it is going to be much, much worse than I think.

Why can't I just have a broken arm or athlete's foot, or any non-horrifyingly embarrassing ailment? Just one time?

Actually, I did have athlete's foot once, and it was pretty embarrassing. So forget that one. But come on. I am now, officially, the only person under fifty to have all her entire excretory system captured on film.

Laost Cause

First off, let me just say that I left work early today, a victim of a mystery illness that has rendered me feeling cross-eyed and caused me to misjudge my distance from my surroundings, resulting in a full-on collision with the side of a cubicle and the unfortunate slamming of an entirely too-full cup of Diet Pepsi against the wall at Long John Silver's. Curiously, this does not seem to affect me when I drive, so apparently if I had been left to do my work in the car all day, everything probably would have been fine.

But anyway, none of this has anything to do with Laos.

What does have to do with Laos is the fact that I had a totally bizarre dream last night that these two Laotians were trying to kill me-- once with a syringe to the neck (full of something that, though burn-y, was apparently not lethal) and once by shoving me off a building. This entire thing is especially interesting in that I have never, ever, ever, ever, ever thought about Laos before in my life, and don't know any actual Laotians, and cannot fathom why they would be trying to kill me, in my dream life or otherwise. It is, by far, the most random topic for a dream that I have ever experienced-- and I once dreamed that I was part of an elite Kid Team sent back in time to stop the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. (LeVar Burton was our leader.)

When I told Ben about it, he was sure I must have been confused, and that it was Russians, not Laotians, that were attempting to kill me. But no, I assure you, it was Laotians*.

*Or, rather, dream Laotians, as I do not, in any way, want to insinuate that any real Laotians are trying to kill me, mainly because I don't want to get angry e-mails.

Pity party

Suddenly, without warning, things have gotten really upsetting at my house. Including:

1. Ben being the middle car in a three-car accident, in which he was hit by an uninsured motorist. An uninsured motorist, no less, who was driving illegally, as his license had been suspended four years ago for not having insurance.

2. Ben's identity has been stolen. Which is creepy, and gives off a Lifetime-esque vibe. I keep expecting Robert Urich to pop out from behind a road sign and bludgeon me to death. Which then makes me even sadder, because he's already dead.

3. This? Still happening. It's time for another ultrasound! Because the three I've already had were so much fun, I couldn't resist a fourth.

4. Not to mention the whole having all my cavities, which were done improperly the first time, redone by the dentist situation.

So, I am down right now, and planning on medicating with a Klondike bar. I realize things could be a lot worse. But right now, I am totally ready for PJs and a good wail.

At least my face looks thin when I do that pouty thing.