My only complaint besides that my ankles are swelling ALREADY is that I have a canker sore on the inside of my bottom lip that is the size of the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. My lips are also swollen and incredibly chapped. I look like I've had lip injections from an incompetent plastic surgeon. It's disturbing.
But not as disturbing as my urine test. Since I'm a senior citizen and pregnant via IVF, my risk of preeclampsia is increased. My Dr. asked me if I wanted to do a 24 hour urine test to monitor for the condition. In my mind, a 24 hour urine test meant that I would give a sample now, and then return in 24 hours to give another. "Sure," I said, "that sounds like something I'd like to monitor."
She sent me down the hall to the lab, where the woman handed me a plastic jug that resembled a gas can. I looked it over in confusion. She then instructed me to collect my urine in the jug for the next 24 hours. Wait. What? You want me to pee into this Tide laundry soap jug? Does she not understand how often I have to use the bathroom these days? And does she not understand that civilized people don't pee into plastic jugs?
Nope. She does not understand.
"Oh, and keep it in the refrigerator," she called out to me as I exited.
Have you ever stored a jug of urine in the fridge? It feels wrong and dirty, like all of the food is instantly contaminated by pee fumes. I kept the jug in a plastic grocery bag to help me feel less creepy. It only slightly helped. I also found myself worried about the expectations for quantity. What if my jug was underfilled? What if it was overfilled? What if my jug was incredibly odiferous when the lab tech opened it?
It was anxiety-inducing.
24 hours later, with my jug-o-pee sloshing next to me on the front seat of my car, I returned my specimen to the lab. There I was, an old pregnant woman with cankles and duck lips schlepping a jug of urine through the parking lot.
I'm officially demoralized.
Welcome to elderly pregnancy.
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