As my body ages I find it is getting a will of its own. It no longer responds to all the commands I give it and I find it is very frustrating to not be in total control of all its functions.
I recently moved into a nice condo which is very convenient, except for one thing, I have no private yard. Gone are the days when, upon crawling out of bed, I could open the door and let the dogs out into the yard to perform their morning duties. Nowadays, after seeing to my immediate bathroom needs, I leash my little dog and take her outside while she does hers.
As this first outing takes place around 7.30 am, I put on a rather ratty, fleece robe, adorned with polar bears, and head to the great outdoors. Fortunately, my third floor suite is opposite the door to the stairs, so down the thirty six steps we go, to the back door. Baggie in hand, I lead Daisy to the edge of the property so she can perform her duties off site.
The dog is not daft, she knows that as soon as she squats, she will be taken back inside, so she likes to sniff around and take her time, while I cool my heels and all other body parts, as the wind whistles round my legs. Once duties have been performed, we head back to the door. This is where my legs take one look at the steps and immediately rebel. Each of the thirty six steps taken quickly, on the way down, now seem to have increased in height and number for the journey back up. I stagger up, hanging onto the stair rail and finally reach the top of the steps and the sanctuary of my own front door.
My breakfast consists of two cups of Keto coffee. The diet I am on does not allow bread or indeed any cereals, so breakfast consists of two large cups of coffee, each one containing a teaspoon full of butter and some whipping cream. Yes I know it sounds weird, but it is working for me. This fills me up until lunchtime. The trouble is that coffee acts as a diuretic so I always need to know the location of the nearest bathroom.
My bladder has been my enemy for as long as I can remember but the older I get the more of a traitor it becomes. This is a problem for many women who have borne children so I know I am not alone in this problem. Why then do they not put more stalls in women’s washrooms? Women’s needs are very different from those of men, we do not have a handy hose that we can whip out for convenient quick relief, so the line up in women’s washrooms is usually long enough to strike up conversations in.
One of the worst problems with a weak bladder is public transport, especially plane journeys. For long journeys, I take a window seat so I do not get my head banged with passing carry on luggage. I can also take a nap against the window and have the added convenience of being able to tuck my purse, books, etc, down between my feet and the aircraft wall.
The fun begins when my bladder alerts me that it is ready to be emptied. Smiling apologetically to my seat partners I excuse myself and climb over all their accumulated paraphernalia which is lying all over their seats and the floor. Once out in the aisle, I take a minute to arrange my legs into the walking position, this takes longer as I age and unless I want to stagger down the aisle like Quasmodo, I need a few seconds to get going.
There is undoubtedly a long line up at one end of the plane, as many people decide they also need to go at this particular time, I turn to go the other way but find the drinks cart on it’s way, blocking the aisle in that direction. I stagger in the original direction, lurching into sleeping heads that are lolling off seatbacks and into the aisle, apologising as I go, I manage to wake up several passengers.
I join the waiting throng who are all looking longingly at two engaged signs on the toilet doors. Slowly, the line edges forward then we are alerted by a tinkling of a bell and the dulcet tones of the hostess informing us that we are experiencing turbulence and need to return to our seats. A couple of the diehards, including myself, pretend we do not hear the message, hoping to get to the bathroom. Another sterner message comes over the speaker and the man in front of me gives up and turns to go. I really do not care at this point if the plane is about to crash land, my bladder can resist no more and I defiantly enter the stall. The relief is wonderful and I frankly don’t give a darn about the voice outside the cubicle admonishing me to return to my seat. If we crash, I will not be identified as the woman with the wet pants, and that is very important to my self esteem.
I honestly don’t know why there is not an option to pay for a seat with a built in toilet, like a commode chair. How comfortable I would be sitting on my throne, drinking as much liquid as I care to and not having to make the nightmare journey to the restroom. I could just go in my seat and nobody would be any the wiser except maybe for the smug smile on my face.