Cherie Priest

Tiny Godzilla since 1975

Too many protest singers, not enough protest songs

3 years, 10 months ago, in the early evening

So today was … uncomfortable … on a number of levels. To give you the short version: my doctor had some concerns, ordered some tests, and I had a (oh let’s say) lower abdominal ultrasound today to check for potential problems (yes, I’m leaving this vague).

I’ll spare you the suspense – everything seems fine. I can resume worrying about the usual stuff, and not entertaining day-mares wherein my ladyparts mutate, achieve singularity, and begin hunting Sarah Connor.

And actually, the ramp up to this exam was much worse than the exam itself. Why? Because the woman in my doctor’s office who booked the appointment gave me the wrong time. (I know. For a fact. I still have the little card she gave me, so it’s not just my word against hers.) The woman at the ultrasound/x-ray/whatnot station was very understanding; she asked around, and found out that even though I was an hour late (technically), they could still work me in. In a few minutes. Or longer. Would that be okay?

Ordinarily, I would’ve offered a hearty, “Sure!” and then busted out my phone to play Bejeweled or check Twitter or whatever. But not today. Today I only squeaked out, “I guess. And thanks.”

Drat my uncanny ability to follow directions … because precisely one hour before my appointment time, I’d downed 32 ounces of water. (They wanted a “full bladder” for the ultrasound, and were very firm on this point.) I struggled to keep the phrases “water balloon” and “time bomb” from colliding in my brain or coming out of my mouth, sat down, and tried to get zen.

Do you know how hard it is to forget that you have to pee really bad? Sure you do. Hey, we’ve all been there. But you know what makes it EXPONENTIALLY HARDER? Two hugely pregnant women who come sit next to you, giggling about how they have to pee all the time now that they’re eight months along, and cruelly getting up to go hit the washroom every five minutes, then coming back and talking about it.

Sample Conversation:


    Pregnant Person #1: Junior is kicking my bladder like a soccer ball!
    Pregnant Person #2: Mine’s tap-dancing on my kidneys!
    Pregnant Person #1: You’re making me want to pee again!
    Pregnant Person #2: I totally have to pee again already!
    Pregnant Person #1: I bet we’ve peed, like, a gallon apiece today!
    Pregnant Person #2: TWO GALLONS APIECE!
    Pregnant Person #1: Hey, we should keep score!
    Pregnant Person #2: All right, starting now!
    Pregnant Person #1: Yay! Let’s go pee!

And in my head I’m all “LADIES PLEASE – SOME OF US ARE DYING OVER HERE.” But I didn’t say anything because they seemed really sweet and cute, and I’m sure they had no idea how much they were KILLING ME … unless being pregnant had given them PSYCHIC POWERS, in which case they are huge douchebags who DESERVE the kind of fetal passengers who will grow up to be CHAMPION NFL PUNTERS. I’m just saying.

Anyway. Right when I had quite literally decided that I was only human and I could not possibly survive long enough to get back there and undressed and ultrasounded, and I stood up to ask the nice lady if I could just reschedule so I could go make like a broken water main … a very kind tech-lady came to my rescue. I got in. I got the first half of the ultrasound, and then was FINALLY ALLOWED TO GO PEE.

It was the highlight of my day. No lie.
Well, that and being told that everything was fine.

(But mostly the peeing.)