Honeymoon Abrupt Ending

I'm back!  A lawfully wedded wife, now.  And very happy with my wedding weekend.

Why am I back at the computer blogging instead of lolling around in honeymoon paradise?  It all comes down to traffic.

We had to make several trips between uptown and downtown this weekend.  It just so happened that, (the only blot on an otherwise flawless wedding plan), the city of Toronto chose this weekend to close down the only major north-south highway running through the centre of town, for spring pothole maintenance.  We took a longer route (all the way around to Dufferin and then back to Yonge again, if you're curious) to avoid the traffic backups, but unfortunately the long drive resulted in two instances of me toughing out the discomfort of a very full bladder.  I should know better.  I should have asked Ken to pull over at a coffee shop, but on Saturday I was in my wedding gown and didn't want to attract attention to myself.  On Sunday I was tired, lazy, and it was cold out, so I didn't want to leave the car.  I really should have known better.  I've put myself in this position before.

I woke up this morning at 5:00 am, whimpering in pain.  Bladder infection.  Wicked ouch.  

At least I'm super-spoiled in one respect: I work with doctors.  I watched TV with a hot pack on my abdomen until 8:30 am and then called one of the g.p.'s  at work.  He faxed a prescription for me to a local pharmacy, and Ken's already gone to pick it up.  I don't even have to leave the house to get what I need, let alone sit in a waiting room.  I am very lucky.

Anyway, the pain's not too bad at the moment.  I'm home with nothing I need to do.  Ken's here to sympathize and bring me cranberry juice.  Life could be worse.  

I want to wait until I'm feeling better before I tell you my wedding tale, so that I can bring a full measure of enthusiasm and descriptive detail to it.  I will say this:  it was pretty much perfect.  Or at least as perfect as any earthly event can hope to be.

I actually slept pretty well the night before.  Everything was all planned out for the Big Day.  I had typed out a detailed itinerary.  The flowers were already at the church, as was the cake.  My overnight case was mostly packed.  All the participants were confirmed.

The day dawned to the most gorgeous weather imaginable.  I didn't have to rush to get ready.  We left on time, and basically ticked our way through the itinerary without a single hiccup.  We were relaxed, and enjoyed the day.  

Our friends and family are amazing.  The photos will be beautiful.  The fancy hotel we stayed in did not disappoint.  All these stories and more, coming soon to this blog.

***

But in the meantime, owie!  I knew that would happen.  As soon as I typed "the pain isn't too bad" it started ramping up again.

If you don't want to hear any gory details, stop reading now.  

I don't get bladder infections often, but when I do, SHAZAM!  It's never mild.  It's always a wake-up-in-the-night-in-agony situation.  This one that I have right now is as "mild" as I've ever had it.  Typically I'm actually panting with pain within a few hours of the onset.

I'm really hoping that the pain doesn't get any worse, now that I can't take painkillers at all due to the stomach upset they bring on.  *fingers crossed*  

Last time this happened, a few years ago, I went to a walk-in clinic to get antibiotics.  Two hours later, after the clinic had closed, the pain ratcheted itself up into the "extreme" category.  Ken drove me to the emergency room to get a prescription for pain medicine.

I'll always remember the unkind nurse who admitted me.  She asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, where ten was the worst pain I'd ever experienced.  I thought about it, and rated it as an eight.  The pain was so bad that I was clenching my teeth and whispering a breathy "silent scream" each time I went to the bathroom.  The nurse stuck her nose up in the air and told me that that was impossible, and I shouldn't exaggerate.  "It's just a bladder infection."  I told her she could put down any number she felt was correct, but that relative to my experience of pain in the past it was 8 out of 10.  She rolled her eyes and asked me for a urine sample.

I went and tortured myself in the bathroom once again, then brought back the bottle and handed it to her.  It was the bright red colour of artificially-flavoured fruit punch.  The other nurse on duty was suitably impressed.  "Um, that would be positive for blood in the urine," she said, marking something on my chart.

SEE? I wanted to yell at the mean nurse.  Look at all that nasty blood!  Now do you believe that it hurts?

Seriously.  If they give you a relative scale by which to judge your pain, they shouldn't be surprised that they don't get the answers they want.  If I'd ever had a limb amputated without anaesthetic, my answer of how bad the pain was relative to "the worst I'd ever experienced" might have been somewhat different. 

Anyway, ow.  It's starting in again, and I can't think of a witty way to wrap up.  So, bye!  I'm off to take my first antibiotic tablet.  Yaaaaay medicine!