The past week has been more of a joke than is even reasonable to explain. Last time I checked in, I’d been to the doctor and had been instructed to call next Monday, the 18th, to schedule the laparoscopic exploration of some endometriosis. As it turns out, whatever is on my insides, even though it’s been there for three years, has heard the news and is pissed. The pain has been extremely exaggerated and hardly under control, even with copious amounts of Lortab.

Also, apparently my bladder wanted in on the action because come yesterday morning, it had written a scathing letter to the editor of its keeper (Hi, that’s me) and a hall-of-fame & compilation-destined Vent related in its style, thusly: “This was fun until the mini-cath on Sunday, so I hope you enjoy hell. [Also enter some witty comment about Sonny Purdue praying for rain]”

The rain came, and and hell it became. (Look, people, I don’t really write the poetry, it just comes to me. Especially when I’m on the drugs.)

I’d felt the inconvenient and ironic symptoms of a urinary tract infection (UTI) approaching as early as Wednesday morning, and began treating with over-the-counter, prescription-strength pyridium and camel-worthy water intake. By Thursday afternoon, however, the infection had progressed and I was in a lot of plain old discomfort. It wasn’t until the stabbing pain arrived in the vicinity of my left kidney that I thought that I might need some intervention. A few hours of writhing in pain later, and I was taking a Lortab only, to find myself entirely coherent and still in ridiculous amounts of pain.

Then my temperature started to climb. I called the doctor at 99.3° and was in the car at 99.7°. I arrived in the ER at 99.9° and was in a room and on fluids at 100.5°. For those keeping a tally, Google Spreadsheet, or office pool, that makes three visits in one week.

I was tearful from the pain in my front-right ovary, back-left kidney, and general malaise when I came into contact with one of the most foul human beings ever bestowed a controlled-substances license. I cannot set up the next part of this story by expressing to you just how much disdain I hold in my soul for this man.

He sauntered into the curtained area of a ten-bed bay (my first mistake was not claiming ovarian pain in addition to everything else, and was given the polar opposite of the private rooms I’d maintained during the previous visits) and splayed himself out on the stool, shoulder on the bed tray and arm draped against the computer. If I hadn’t already met the president of the state’s leading healthcare operation, and then used him and his evil minions as my reason for leaving my employment there (after three weeks), I might have wondered if he did, in fact, own the place. (There was no doubt that he believed it, but who am I to deny a dream? [Or insult the keeper of the drugs?])

The trainwreck of a “patient consult” began with his regaling me of the testing, poking, and/or prodding imposed upon my body during my previous two visits. When he reached the second CT scan, I very timidly interrupted, still crying, “You know, I was there.” The original UA had, in fact, cultured E. coli, while the mini-cath sample (will spare details, but did not involve a cup, and that was not a good thing) was clean.

I told him I suspected that the resultant, final, and very apparent UTI-turned-kidney-infection and where-is-the-fentanyl, hadn’t actually been the cause of my previous two visits, as this ridiculous pain in my back and conveniently located on my kidney was brand new. In fact, as I told him, I realized the infection was probably a consequence of having been violated every way from Thursday, including catheterization, but I guess that comes with the territory. As it was, four other doctors before him had all reasonably confirmed my suspicion that the original pee-in-a-cup sample was most likely contaminated and that was the reason the second was clean—because the second sample caused the infection.

Except then I realized I would most likely die in front of this man before he parted with the drugs because his eyebrows raised and he defensively repeated, “Violated, huh? Tell me about that.” Oh for pity’s freaking sake, Jack, I’m not accusing anyone. I calmly, yet still tearfully—because still no drugs—explained that it was just an expression, you know, to express my knowledge that more exams=higher probability of infection. We’re on the same team, here, no need to bring in the lawyers. Actually, for the record, grow some dialect, freak.

While my compassionate nurse, Taylor, attempted to find a vein in my left arm (a joke) in which to pump the drugs and as I offered to run away to Mexico with him for simply trying, however, all hell broke loose. The doctor commenced abuse of his own ability to speak and set a record for not letting me get more than two words out of my mouth before verbally berating me for thinking anything, at all, ever, until he left. Which was not very soon. Which made me cry. A lot.

He proceeded to tell me, chidingly, that the cause of this entire ordeal had been an underlying kidney infection. Huh, I said, because I didn’t have the pain last Thurs—except then I was interrupted.

And then he tried to tell me that the clean cath sample had been an anomaly. I said ok, fine, but the other pain, in front, over my ova—denied, again.

There was no pain on my “ovary” as he actually used air quotes, that pain was related to this infection.

No, I said, beginning to become defensive, the two ER docs and my own OB had diagnosed probable endo—wait, I CAN’T TALK BECAUSE THE DOCTOR WILL NOT LISTEN TO ME AND KEEPS TALKING WHEN I TALK. Because the pain is different. I’ve had it for three yea—nope, a kidney infection. The whole time.

I tried, as my last effort, to tell him I am scheduled to have a laparo—and then it happened.

He. Rolled. His. Eyes.

I lost it.

My O2 saturation plummeted to around 80 and my heart rate leapt to 147 as I held my breath and my tongue. The monitor rang and he turned it off without taking one glance at the numbers. Fine, I whispered. Give me the Cipro. Fine. Fluids. Fine. Where’s the elevator to the roof? Because I will be jumping, fyi. Also, MIGHT WANT TO CALL THE GUINESS PEOPLE OR SOMETHING BECAUSE THIS IS THE LONGEST DAMN KIDNEY INFECTION EVER BREWING, SINCE I HAVE HAD THIS PAIN FOR THREE YEARS. ALSO, CAN APPARENTLY HIDE FROM CATH-UAs. MAGICAL. FREAKING MAGICAL.

He left, satisfied knowing that my apparent dreams of becoming an endometrial superstar had been sufficiently crushed. After all, he sure showed me, you know, rolling his eyes and all.

I waited until Taylor had rolled one vein and then successfully accessed another and started the antibiotic and fluid drips before I called my mother, sobbing. Heavingly sobbing. Sobbing beyond control, yet only able to whisper, because I sure didn’t want to disturb the gargantuan nude man the next curtain over. The pain was so bad and my emotions were unchecked. The fentanyl had done nothing but gotten me high and I was still in pain, but terrified to ask for something else. My mother calmly informed me that I didn’t have be this assface’s friend, and that I needed to remember that he was the keeper of the drugs. You know, the drugs for my magical, selectively-invisible, three-year-old kidney infection. I’ll be freaking damned.

I swear to you. I am not a bad patient. Doctors like me. I am often complimented for my own awareness about what is going on with my body, what has happened to my body, and what may yet become of my body. I know how to pronounce things, I research the Internet to become informed, not psychotic and only mildly hypochondrial, and I ask thoughtful questions so I can take charge of my own care. I have only rarely cried in the presence of a medical professional, having only resorted to tears if I have been just that miserable, and until now, I had a perfect record of that mode of action garnering sufficient compassion, as it was warranted.

I sat through the bags of fluid, held hostage at the bedside and unable to pee after the first liter because my tall nurse hung the bag on the highest tree in existence. I can’t describe the pain that resulted, as I not only had the pain I came in with, but also the no-peeing and coming-off-my-high (but without relief) sensations added as well. It might have been sufficient to have just typed, “I was miserable. I remained miserable. The end.”

As I prepared to be discharged, the nausea began and before I said anything to the nurse, I realized that a new complaint would mean having to feign interaction with the physician, so I drove home and vomited the contents of my stomach in the comfort of my own home, while my own chihuahua tried to climb the back of my hooded sweatshirt and claim my head as territory of puppydom. You can have her if you want. She also comes with the insatiable desire to stand in your underwear while you pee.

Edited to add: I actually felt a million times better this morning, and waiting around for the drugs last night was worth it. The pain in my kidney has resolved, though the three-year-old pain he claimed was not ovarian, continues to increase in intensity. The end.

I am writing from my phone. My car broke. Things are bad. Someone please buy me some Maggie Moos. Broke. Holy freaking broke. Broken.

Showering, that is. Or waking up at all. I am not a morning person. Never have been. Never will be. I have a serious and documented medical condition (caused my asthma, in some freaky way, no less) that makes it so I do not experience any REM sleep during a normal night’s rest—or lack of it, as it were. Which is why I fly in to work at the crack of 8:30 every morning. I am not lazy, except for when I am.

Additionally, I’ll be honest here—I’m not really one for the act of showering. I do it, daily, but don’t expect me to be happy about it. And, don’t get me wrong—the cleanliness is of utmost priority and longing, except for maybe on Saturday sometimes after 3:00 p.m., but I hate the idea of taking at least an hour out of the day just to primp—of which 90% is spent restructuring prior to and after the shower—even though I know the end result will feel squeaky and stuff.

Since I moved into my current quarters, or sixteenths, have had a hard go of trying to acclimate myself to the shower that really isn’t. If I am going to do it—shower—and since I most generally do, I want the process to be as seamless and non-obstructive as possible. An a non-obstructive sense, I want (but haven’t had, going on eight months now, oh and also, air conditioning, and also can you say slumlord? Because really.) the water to be hot, the towel to be clean, and the air to consist of about negative-seventeen-percent humidity upon commencement of post-primpage. I sincerely and greatly desire the water to drain quietly and effortlessly from the tub and for the porcelain to glimmer in pristinely clean condition in the growing daylight. That would make the whole thing easier. Really, it would. Would’ve.

But as you can see (click for larger version on flickr), the current plumbing is somewhat less-than-desirable in the ease of use category. I am 4′10″ quite liberally, and I have to lean a certain crick-including way to avoid head-bonking against the overhang that is quite unfortunately part of the roof structure or I would have sledgehammered that brother long ago. That’s short. You’ll also note that the shower itself is not so much a shower as it is a clumsily fashioned hose-attached-to-tub-spout device. Over the past eight months, I have made this work, I really have. Not so quietly at times, but still, I’ve made it work.

Except remember that whole “draining quietly and effortlessly” thing? Not so much happening, as of Saturday, most likely after 3:00 p.m., because I did shower on Saturday. I promise. (And remember that whole “no more air conditioning for Ashley” thing? Yeah. Still kind of a problem. I’m not bitter.) So. In regards to the day-old bathwater footsoak I was wont to avoid, Saturday night, I did the only thing reasonable and I poured an entire bottle of generic Drano (I was having my doubts for a while that the only thing it was good for was spilling on and ruining fabulous items of my and others’ clothing) and aimed as closely as I could to the drain. And then I went to bed.

Sunday morning, the water had not budged and I had to summon up all kinds of Sabbathy courage to stick my hand into the drain to see if there might be some kind of foreign or monetary (would be sweet, no?) substance blocking the water’s escape route. I was up to my elbows in day-old showerwater (didn’t say it would be a pretty story, did I?) when my cute little bendy fingers were met by a substance neither monetary or pliable in nature. There was something gross and calcified (though I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve any calcium OR taste like a Flintstone vitamin) and groooooooody in the drain.

So I poked at it with a wire hanger. And I left it.

Except, Sunday evening? The water had not budged. And while foregoing the shower on a Sunday is perfectly acceptable in terms of Sunday’s binding and lawful agreement with doing nothing but getting one’s worship on, Monday has made a strict and evil request for cleanliness and promptitude involving said shower. So, begrudgingly, I awakened super-extra-early and drove to a friend’s house to bathe. Do you know how ridiculous that is? That I should spend FOURTEEN.THOUSAND.DOLLARS on gasoline to fuel an early-morning trip to someone elses home to bathe? It’s ridiculous, if you were wondering.

And I’ve made do the rest of the week. I don’t want to go into those details. It’s been a painful and draining (har) time.

So now my passive-aggressiveness doesn’t know what to do with itself. Calls to the landlord have gone unanswered and voicemails unreturned. An email, about the air conditioning dearth, dated 26 July and sent that day to my landlord has gone unanswered. He, surprisingly, cashed my rent check. And now we’re nearly upon the cusp of a new month. And the law says I can withhold rent but that it’s “RISKY” and I’m not so much all over that. There are holes in the drywall in the stairwell. The promised fire extinguisher has never arrived. I had to put the blinds up myself. The air conditioner still does not work and the people downstairs (other renters) have a dog, who keeps my dog up all hours of the night by carrying on very loud conversations, probably about the new Weimeraner next door and how cute he is and does Ethel think he thinks she’s cute? BUT NO ONE CARES SHUT UP AND TALK ABOUT IT WHILE I AM AT WORK.

So Monday was rough, but the overpowering issue at hand is that of the cooperation issues my landlord seems to be struggling with. Against everything holy and good, Monday, I walked into work at 7:45 and Bryce, after first resolving that I wouldn’t maybe cry or scream, said gently and sweetly, “Satan called. He says hell has frozen over.”

And really, that’s no way to start a morning, now is it?