Two weeks ago I had a flow study and a bladder scan. The tests identify how well you empty your bladder. A few weeks earlier a CT scan of my bladder and only kidney, had identified a problem down below.
On the day of the flow I drink a litre of water in the hour leading up to the scan as required. You know, you’re so full you think you’ll burst. Arriving there, the receptionist calmly says, ‘If you’re ready to go, our nurse will take you to the flow room.’
I say, ‘No, I‘ll wait five more minutes, just to make sure I’m ready.’ Actually, I’m beside myself with anxiety. What if I get stage fright?
The pamphlet says it’s like going in your own toilet. Now or never. The nurse ushers me in.
I see a large funnel connected to a hose connected so some sort of measuring device. High tech? Doesn’t look like my toilet.
As night follows day, I get stage fright. Can’t pass a drop.
The contraption starts ticking, recording nothing, and then soon stops. Still nothing.
Still beside myself with anxiety, I lean over. What’s going on here?
My foot must have hit the hose as the whole contraption falls apart with a bang. Now I pass a few drops on the floor in fright.
A very angry nurse rushes in. My trousers are still at half mast. I don’t think COVID19 measures were in place when she wiped the floor.
‘You’ll have to go back to the waiting room,’ she snaps. ‘We’ll try again in another half hour.’
An hour later things are no better.
Burnside Writers Group 