Dear Universe: WHY am I not one of those people who is naturally good at giving spontaneous urine samples?
I went to the doctor for a check-up today. Not that seeing your doctor at almost-fifteen weeks is part of the maternity schedule, I just had a long list of minor pregnancy-related ailments that needed seeing to. (Seriously. If it’s (a) in a pregnancy manual, and (b) moderately to horrifically embarrassing, I’ve got it covered.)
I also had a couple of new paranoias to put down. I don’t know how this happens: one minute I’m chugging along as normal, perfectly happy and optimistic (especially now the sickness is better), and then suddenly I’m a panicky maniac. What if I’m eating something I shouldn’t? What if I’m sleeping in the wrong position? Last week I got into a lather about essential oils. I don’t even really know what they are, yet suddenly I’m all of a dither in case I’ve been accidentally rubbing myself with basil, like you’d mix up a spice jar with your deodorant and not notice you smelled like a pizza. This week it was hot water bottles, which I had glued to my stomach for the first two months of the year. ‘My mum said that you have to think of a baby as an egg’, said some driveller on a forum, ‘and what happens to an egg when you heat it up?’ Well, what indeed, driveller?! TJ, I thought – have I accidentally scrambled you?
Well, no, says my lovely doctor. People in hot countries don’t have little scrambled babies, do they? I can use hot water bottles as much as I like, which is a relief, because oh, my giddy aunt, my digestive system has a mind of its own at the minute. So I felt a pure and devoted love for the good doctor, until he asked me to go and make him a urine sample.
I wasn’t totally unprepared – I’d brought a bottle of water – but hadn’t really expected to need it. I’d been to the loo lots already that morning. And I only needed to cast my mind back to the terrible A&E visit in which I spent 35 long minutes trying to wee into a cup to remember that this isn’t my forte. I went, though. I drank the whole bottle. I jumped up and down in the cubicle. I sat on the loo and jiggled like a belly dancer. All to no avail: I managed to produce the teeniest, most pathetic drop you can imagine, and had to return sad and empty-handed. Luckily for both of us, he said my efforts were sufficient, though perhaps he was just being nice.
I walked through my front door fifteen minutes later, and needed to go so badly I dropped everything and ran for it. Sigh.