Today was my first chance to wallow in slumber for the past week or so. Between all the housing booshit and preparing for and bonding with the family for Drew’s big birthday bash, I just got plum wore out.
Of course I’ve decided that I’m fully and completely recovered, therefore I can conquer the world. I may have been somewhat over ambitious in pacing myself – or not pacing myself. I can’t get up as early in the morning as Mike, I can’t walk as fast and far as Drew, and I can’t (and certainly shouldn’t) match Thom drink for drink – regardless of how many Madonna songs Rocco tries to “sing” during Karaoke. I damn sure shouldn’t try to do all three – for three days. Then again, if the Lonon Party van pulled up outside my door this very moment, I’d jump right in again. That shit was fantastic!
Anyway my tuckered tush was relishing sleeping in this morning. I woke briefly after Simone changed positions and moved from my lap. The room was the perfect temperature with a tiny chill in the air to make the cozy comforter extra delicious. The sky was slightly overcast, keeping the room dark. Rocco’s stomach seemed to have recovered from the sauerkraut that kept me awake the night before. I rolled over and descended into dreams of Edward Cullen.
We were walking by the Mississippi river…then swimming…then at Niagara Falls…and I realized Rocco was up and in the bathroom. I think he may have some sort of birth defect where his bladder has been replaced with a uterus. That thing seems to have no limit for expansion. The man pees for hours. It’s not possible for the human body to hold that much urine at a single time, I’m pretty sure.
I have a big bladder – I know exactly what it holds. One of the silver linings of chemo is you get to learn all about your bodily functions – YAY! One of the drugs they included in my toxic cocktails apparently causes kidney failure. So to make sure those bad boys were still carrying their weight, I had to collect and measure every drop of pee I generated for two plus days. No big deal if you only pee four or five times a day, right? But this was like those crazy Japanese game shows. A contestant is faced with a vertical sheet of spinning steel he must climb. Just as he starts to gain some traction, they dump gallons of vegetable oil on top of him. For me, they pumped me full of saline like a Baldwin with liquor. My fingers looked like turgid surgical gloves about to burst. Hubba, hubba. I had to pee every twenty minutes on average. Then I’d take my tumescent hands and my IV pole into the restroom, set up my pee hat, and try to not make a mess.
Because my bladder is as dainty as the rest of me, I always had more pee than the hat would hold. I’d have to stop the stream, stand, twist around without dragging my tubes through anything inappropriate, check the liquid level, dump the contents, replace the hat, write the number on a piece of tape on the back of the door, sit back down, aim, finish peeing, check the level, write the number down, dump the hat, clean the hat, wash my hands, then try and do math. By the time I got through the whole procedure it was time to pee again! I got to the point where I could make it forty minutes if I stayed really focused. The nurses were all dumbfounded by the volume of urine my bladder-of-doom could hold.
But what my bladder can hold is not a drop in the bucket (pun totally intended) compared to Rocco’s. That boy could maintain a steady stream for the entire duration of one of my hat escapades. Symphony’s have been performed in less time than it takes the man to finish his morning pee. Titanic was shorter. The flight to England was shorter. Chewbacca was shorter. Dick Cheney’s temper is shorter. I’ve actually seen him lean on the wall half way through the process because he gets tired of standing in one place for so long.
He must do bladder calisthenics or something. Are there kegel equivalents for men? If I had been typing this in real time, Rocco would still be peeing. It’s like listening to sweet mint tea being poured in Morocco. But less refreshing. And not described in any travel book I’ve ever read.
I take road trips with this man! I used to think I had TB (tiny bladder). When we make the nine hour trek to Virginia, Rocco is forever frustrated by my need for a pit stop every three to four hours. I swear he could do the whole thing without stopping for anything other than gas. I did the trip with another duo a few months back. They stopped over seven times. Seven. Count ’em – SEVEN. Dude. I got mad bladder. I shan’t feel inferior anymore.
Based on my incredibly scientific study of bladders and their capacity, I have decided Rocco is a freak of nature. His bladder is an abomination. Yet it’s not as though his abdomen distends when that thing is fully loaded. It must be like a TARDIS or something. Not unlike that octuplet mom’s uterus. It’s a mystery to me.
Anyway Bladimir Putin apparently felt like breaking a record today. Despite my incredibly perfect sleeping conditions, I laid awake listening to the never ending stream plummeting into the bowl. Some people say that the sound of running water or fountains makes them have to go. I’m pretty impervious to such subtle tricks on the mind. However listening to Rocco pee for seventeen minutes after my not having gone for eight hours pushed me over the edge. I tried to fight it, doze back off, squelch the desire – no dice. But even worse, after I got up, put on my robe and socks, gave Simone a pat on the head, and walked the three feet to the bathroom…I had to wait for him finish so I could finally go.