At ten weeks pregnant, the outside world is blissfully unaware of a woman's condition. In complete contrast, her internal rhythm is badly disturbed, and waking up in the morning is no longer a cheerful experience.
Another of the joys of pregnancy is the trans-abdominal ultrasound scan to check that all is well with the fetus, a procedure where a doctor smears gel onto one's abdomen and slides a transducer over it to get an image of the baby. While this is going on, the poor woman is struggling with an overfilled bladder.
My husband, Pete, insisted that I have a scan, just to make sure that everything was all right. Not that he was likely to be there; pressure of work, etc. etc. And so it turned out. When the big day came, I set off for the clinic to suffer alone.
When making the appointment, I had asked the receptionist how much water I should drink beforehand. "Twenty ounces, half an hour before the appointment," she'd informed me in a starched manner.
"Twenty?" I repeated, imagining how difficult it would be to cope with that much liquid in my body.
"More if you want," she added. "The fuller the better."
It was my first time, and I didn't know any better. Neither, apparently, did she.
When the date arrived, I dutifully drank down a bottle of water before leaving home, taking another with me in the car, reasoning that I shouldn't risk loading myself up too quickly, or I would be climbing the wall by the time I reached the clinic.
I sipped water intermittently as I drove until the bottle was half empty, then decided it would be wise to stop. It was just as well that I did, because a minute later I encountered a traffic jam, half a mile before my exit. "Damn," I complained; this was going to make me late. My bladder chose this moment to start signaling that it needed attention. "Oh, great," I mumbled, and crossed my legs to ease the growing discomfort. Then I waited.
And waited.
After about ten minutes of inching forward and getting nowhere, several emergency vehicles sped past along the hard shoulder, sirens blaring, telling me that this was not going to be over any time soon. I groaned, badly in need of the bathroom now, and I began to wonder if I could actually last until I reached the clinic.
After another twenty minutes, I was becoming frantic. My bladder felt like it had grown to the size of a football, and I unbuttoned my jeans to take a little of the pressure off my abdomen. I tried taking deep breaths and thinking about something else, but it was no good. I couldn't concentrate on anything except my aching bladder.
Why had I drunk so much water? I examined the bottle and saw that it had originally contained sixteen ounces. Coupled with the one I'd drunk at home, that meant I had poured a pint and a half of liquid into myself in the past hour. How much could my bladder actually hold? Two pints? Less? At the moment, it felt like a lot less.
My cellphone rang. It was Pete. "How's it going?" he asked cheerfully. I could have strangled him.
"It isn't," I said, my voice breaking with the strain.
"Whaddaya mean?"
"I'm not at the clinic yet. I'm stuck in traffic and my bladder's killing me."
"Oh man. Tried crossing your legs?"
"Don't be cute. I'm in agony here."
"Sorry hun. Think you'll make it all right?"
"Put it this way. If the traffic doesn't start moving soon, there's a hundred percent chance of precipitation in our car this morning."
"That bad, huh? Look, sorry but I gotta go."
"Hey, I gotta go too," I quipped, squeezing my thighs together until my muscles locked.
"Love you. Good luck!" Pete said before hanging up.
"Thanks," I muttered, and blew out my cheeks; I was going to need it.
I'd tried not to hold myself with my hands until now in case somebody walked past the window and looked in, but I couldn't put it off any longer. I was just about to grab myself when the traffic ahead started moving. At last! It was a relief, in a way, but it also meant that I had to deny my tiring muscles that little extra help.
A minute later, I was on the exit ramp and turning into the clinic's parking lot. As I stepped from the car, the weight of my bladder shifted and I almost lost control. Squeezing everything to suppress my burning desire to pee, I forced myself to re-button the waistband of my jeans and hobble toward the entrance.
The receptionist chose to ignore my arrival and went on scribbling something on a clipboard. Crossing my legs, I said, "Excuse me. I'm Karen Stevens. I have -- had -- an appointment with Dr. Adams, but--"
"You're late," she finished for me. "You'll have to make another appointment."
I was about to argue with her, then decided I'd far sooner use the restroom. I turned, located the door, and had just taken a step toward them when a voice behind me said, "Ms. Stevens?" I turned to see a diminutive blonde in a white lab coat. "Dr. Adams can see you now."
I almost told her to forget it because I simply had to pee, now! But if I did that, I would only have to come back and go through all this again. Better to get it over with, I decided. "Okay," I agreed, "but we need to hurry. I have to pee so bad."
"Guess you drank too much water," the assistant suggested. I glared at the receptionist whose advice had got me into this situation, and followed the little blonde behind the scenes.
"Actually, I got stuck in traffic on the way here," I explained. "Oohh, my bladder is so full."
"That's good. It will give us a clearer image," she replied.
"Oooh. How long will it take?" I inquired, my tone anxious. "The scan, I mean."
"Ten minutes. Maybe a bit longer if Dr. Adams needs to see more detail."
I prayed she wouldn't. I was going out of my mind with desperation.
We entered a sterile-smelling room where a woman stood waiting beside an examination table. "Ms. Stevens. Glad you could make it," she greeted me. "I'm a bit pressed for time, so if you could just take down your pants and jump up on the table, we'll get started."
"Right," I said, and with trembling fingers I pulled on the metal tab to unzip my jeans.
It didn't move. Looking down, I was horrified to discover that the tail of my shirt was interleaved between the teeth of the zipper. "Oh my God, noooo," I moaned, feeling my bladder muscles contract. "It's stuck!"
"Wait here," the assistant said and dashed across the room. Where did she think I was going!?
"Oooh! Hurry up! Pleeaasse!" I called after her, hardly able to breathe now, I was that close to peeing myself.
"Coming," the girl said, returning with a pair of pliers. She clamped the nose of the pliers onto the zipper tab and tugged at it while I hopped around trying not to void my bladder.
"Hold still," she instructed.
"I can't!" I practically screamed the words. "I'm really, really desperate to pee!"
"Be careful, Carol," Dr. Adams said, just as the pliers jerked free with a faint, metallic snap. I gasped at the sight of the metal tab pinched in the jaws of the pliers. She'd broken it off!
"Ooh, oh G-God!" I wailed, realizing there was no way to pull my jeans down now.
"Hold on," Dr. Adams told me, an instruction that made me want to laugh hysterically. I couldn't hold on. I was absolutely bursting!
And then it happened. Pee began gushing out of me, spreading around my crotch and down the legs of my jeans in a dark tide. The assistant quickly scooted, while Dr. Adams simply remarked, "Oh dear."
I let it all go, in the middle of their sterile room. There didn't seem to be any point in fighting it now.
The stream went on and on to the point where my jeans couldn't soak up any more. I covered my face, wanting nothing more than to be back at home and hidden from the world. But how could I walk through the clinic like this?
The little assistant, bless her heart, found a wheelchair, sat me in it and covered my lap with a blanket before wheeling me out to my car. I thanked her effusively as I started the engine, shifting uncomfortably in my wet clothes. I sighed, dismayed that I would now have to do this all again. Very soon.