Warning: This post contains graphic information of a pseudo-medical, TMI nature.
My husband and I just spent a delightful week at the beach. Long walks, action movies, and good eats. Unfortunately, I have yet to make it through a week at the beach without developing a UTI (urinary tract infection, for those blessed enough not to know). This time, it seemed to be caused by dehydration. I mean, have you ever tasted water at the beach? Wait, I wasn’t trying to drink ocean water. But I certainly wasn’t drinking that nasty stuff from the tap which tasted oily with a touch of aluminum.
Even as we drove away from the resort, I was cramping and miserable, facing a four hour drive home. I insisted on driving (that’s another post) and had trouble staying in my lane or reading any direction signs. My dear husband kept clutching the arm rest and pressing his brake foot on the floor. His only comment was, “There are a lot of police cars around here.” I didn’t see any but by then, I could hardly see the road. We stopped at the first available gas station, and then the second. I took some meds and tried to forge onward. My husband started talking to distract me. If you knew him, you’d appreciate that sacrifice. But the pain got worse and worse, so that I needed a restroom every two minutes. My husband spotted a Cracker Barrel restaurant and suggested we stop there so I could drink water and rush to the bathroom. I reluctantly agreed, knowing that he was eager to get home.
I made 8 trips to the bathroom as my sweetest widower prayed for me and entertained me with stories and online cartoons. I drank about a gallon of water, which meant we’d have to stop continually if we ever got started again. Back on the road, he continued to regale me with funny stories. I felt guilty for this nightmare stop-and-go ride, so when he suggested we take the next exit for a potty break, I said, “No, let me see how far I can go.” We rounded a corner on the freeway into a terrible traffic jam. My husband suggested a quick right exit. “But that’s another highway!” I objected, knowing it would take us farther from home. He graciously said, “Let’s look out for restrooms,” so I drove down that road to nowhere, when another highway was available. At my husband’s urging, we took that one as well. By then, I was looking for suitable roadside bushes but eventually we came upon a gas station. I managed to fling the car over a curb and into another pit stop. Then we wound our way homeward once again.
True love is stopping at every exit and not caring that it took over 7 hours to get home.