I’m having another medical crisis, and I’m not sure if it’s real or imaginary. Years ago, I wrote about being a person who pees way too much. I finally stopped consuming caffeine and alcohol, which for the most part has solved the problem—until recently. The other night, I had a very vivid dream about sitting on a toilet in a movie theater, peeing for what felt like an eternity. In the dream, I’d waited in the longest bathroom line imaginable at BAM, and was mad because some girls doing coke in one of the stalls were taking a long time. I said, can I please come in just to pee, there are no other stalls and I won’t tell anyone you’re doing coke, it’s cool with me haha. They let me into the stall and laughed at me for having a never-ending stream of urine, and didn’t share their coke with me. When I woke up, I realized I’d peed in my bed, which hasn’t happened since drunkenly peeing in my boyfriend’s bed 10 years ago!
To me, being 34 years old and peeing in bed sober warranted immediate medical intervention. I prepared to go to the Emergency Room, as I’ve done so many times this past year. I packed a tote bag with some books, a snack, and my laptop. Surely, my kidneys were malfunctioning and on the verge of total collapse. If nothing else warranted an ER visit, this did, and if I had to wait all day to see a doctor, so be it.
But my friends (and reddit) told me not to go to the ER. They assured me that if I went to the ER for peeing myself with no other symptoms of illness, I’d not only be laughed at, but would probably not be helped, either. I disagreed with them and decided to tell my mom, because surely she would be concerned. Instead, she was like, that happens to everyone but go to the doctor if you really want to. Since everyone around me seemed to think this wasn’t a medical emergency, I unpacked my tote bag and did not go anywhere. I experienced a state of panic that eventually subsided, and then I ate breakfast and went on with the rest of my day. I had a virtual care appointment with a doctor who assured me I wasn’t dying but encouraged me to follow up with my PCP. I took direction from people saner than me, because at this point I know that I can’t really trust my own judgement regarding medical anxiety. I’d spend the rest of my life in an ER if I could.
I have to talk myself down from going to the ER pretty frequently, even though I usually know on some level it’s not the right thing to do. I have managed to succeed in not going for several months. But I’ve wanted to go on multiple occasions since then—for a fast heart rate, for a nagging dull ache in my calf, for feeling light-headed, for brain fog, for ringing in my ears, for a hangover. When my best friend visited from Spain, I wanted to spend one of our only days in Austin at the ER. My friend conceded that we could go eat at a restaurant across the street from the ER, so at least we’d be nearby in case I started dying. By the time we finished our meal, the panic had subsided enough that I decided to just go lie down instead. My friend made us some tea and we fell asleep watching something on her laptop. In retrospect, this strikes me as a profound act of love and patience on her part—the willingness not only to take care of me in a moment of insanity, but to humor the insanity by saying yes, let’s go somewhere nearby the ER just in case you really are dying this time.
After a week of being convinced that my kidneys are failing, I’ve accepted that what I actually have is a UTI. I don’t want to take antibiotics because the last time I took them— when I was convinced I’d contracted leptospirosis from my dog—they destroyed my stomach and left me with acid reflux that still won’t go away. That’s a good reason not to take antibiotics, but I’m going to take them because a sane person (a doctor) told me to. When in doubt, ask a sane person.