For the last six months I’ve worn a groove in the concrete path leading to the doctor’s door begging for script after script of various antibiotics to cure what appears to be a chronic urinary tract infection.
The first time I went, the doctor gave me the wrong antibiotic and the surgery failed to notify me for a month so the evil micro-organisms were allowed to fester in self-satisfied camouflage for a while.
The new toxic-smelling, little yellow pills seemed to cure my ailment instantly but as they made me feel as queasy as a newbie sailor I stopped taking them too early, didn’t I?
Thrilled with this retreat; the surviving bacteria gathered forces, calling in the backup artillery just as William Wallace summoned the MacDougal and MacDonald clans to join his brave ranks screaming, "She can take our lives, but she can't take our freedom!"
Very soon, I was doubled up in pain again and hobbling back to the doctor for more of the stomach-stripping drugs.
This time I was very dedicated and took the nauseating tablets punctually but after two weeks they still weren’t working.
I went back to the doctor after the fortnight course begging for another type of cure.
“Keep going with these,” she insisted.
Two more weeks passed and I still didn’t feel right. Then I noticed the bottle of tablets I was dipping into every six hours had a strangely faded label.
“They’re only two weeks old!” I thought in confusion. “How could the label be so faded?”
It was then I realised I’d been intermittently using a bottle of the exact same class of antibiotic I’d been prescribed six years ago which were long, long past their expiry date.
“So anyway... I’ve unknowingly been taking one dead tablet and one live tablet alternatively for the last two weeks,” I related the story to my sister Sam, over a cup of tea one day. “So I had to go BACK to the doctor and explain the stupid thing I’d done and get another script and take ANOTHER course!”
“WHAT??? Are you training these bacteria or something? Are you trying to create a super breed of microbes?” Sam shook her head at me incredulously.
Fast forward two weeks… when I’d finished that final course I have to say I felt bloody fantastic… for about fourteen days.
Off I trotted to the doctors again. “Do you think I might be resistant to the tablets I’ve been taking?” I asked pitifully.
Dr B. wasn’t much of a talker.
The new toxic-smelling, little yellow pills seemed to cure my ailment instantly but as they made me feel as queasy as a newbie sailor I stopped taking them too early, didn’t I?
Thrilled with this retreat; the surviving bacteria gathered forces, calling in the backup artillery just as William Wallace summoned the MacDougal and MacDonald clans to join his brave ranks screaming, "She can take our lives, but she can't take our freedom!"
Very soon, I was doubled up in pain again and hobbling back to the doctor for more of the stomach-stripping drugs.
This time I was very dedicated and took the nauseating tablets punctually but after two weeks they still weren’t working.
I went back to the doctor after the fortnight course begging for another type of cure.
“Keep going with these,” she insisted.
Two more weeks passed and I still didn’t feel right. Then I noticed the bottle of tablets I was dipping into every six hours had a strangely faded label.
“They’re only two weeks old!” I thought in confusion. “How could the label be so faded?”
It was then I realised I’d been intermittently using a bottle of the exact same class of antibiotic I’d been prescribed six years ago which were long, long past their expiry date.
“So anyway... I’ve unknowingly been taking one dead tablet and one live tablet alternatively for the last two weeks,” I related the story to my sister Sam, over a cup of tea one day. “So I had to go BACK to the doctor and explain the stupid thing I’d done and get another script and take ANOTHER course!”
“WHAT??? Are you training these bacteria or something? Are you trying to create a super breed of microbes?” Sam shook her head at me incredulously.
Fast forward two weeks… when I’d finished that final course I have to say I felt bloody fantastic… for about fourteen days.
Then… it came
back!
Off I trotted to the doctors again. “Do you think I might be resistant to the tablets I’ve been taking?” I asked pitifully.
Dr B. wasn’t much of a talker.
“Go for an ultrasound and come back and see me next week,” he grumbled.
I scrutinised the referral form carefully.
I scrutinised the referral form carefully.
Dr B. thinks I have a Kidney stone!!!!
Naturally, I researched every website available to determine whether Kidney stones have ever killed anyone and apparently it doesn’t happen very often.
Naturally, I researched every website available to determine whether Kidney stones have ever killed anyone and apparently it doesn’t happen very often.
Good… but they are evidently very hurty.
I looked up the main causes of kidney stones and guess what the best foods you can eat are, in order to cultivate a really healthy calcium oxalate stone?
Spinach and beetroot.
Guess what Pinky essentially lives on?
Every day, Pinky eats two cups of spinach and beetroot for lunch.
That’s four times the recommended amount of oxalate a susceptible person should consume in a day... and Pinky does that every single day.
My scan is tomorrow and I should find out whether or not I’m gestating my sixth child or not.
I think I’ll ask for a Caesarean. A natural birth is out of the question, especially if it's going to be a multiple birth.
What will I call it? …Crystal?
I wonder if Popeye had kidney stones?
What will I call it? …Crystal?
I wonder if Popeye had kidney stones?
