What did women who lived in, say, 1563, do about this? Probably lived in persistent pain and terror and died early from childbirth? Let’s face it; I’d be totally f’d if I’d been born then. Given I’m now 30, I’ve probably busted the Tudor life expectancy by heapses and, if not, I should have had about 8 pregnancies or something similar. I was going to say doesn’t bear thinking about but it kind of puts writing a cruddy email to my workplace about being late into perspective, no? Plus, this is also a cross for much of womankind to bear, isn't it? I don't think I've met a 30 year old who doesn't know that particular version of pain?
There are other things I might have struggled with if born in 1563, on reflection, such as a loud mouth and fundamental laziness (I NEVER want to handwash. Imagine if ALL your washing was handwashing. THE INHUMANITY.)
Writing all of this down has sent me on a memory lane bender: Memorable UTI Edition. God that’s awful. Look away now, as I record them for posterity:
- The One at My Hall of Residence, 2001, The First As An Adult And I Totally Thought I Was Dying But Also a Diseased Whore
- The One When I Made P Walk Me To Urgent Care in the Middle of A Cold, Cold Dunedin Night, circa 2002
- The One When I Was on a Plane To Go See My Mother With My Sister And I Made Them Drive Me Directly To Urgent Care, circa 2005 ish, And My Mother Made Jokes About Sex.
- The One in Hong Kong (see above)
- The One Where I Finally Used That Expensive American Health Insurance, While P Suffered From Pink Eye And Visited a Dodgy Back Alley Doctor
In conclusion, I am grateful for cranberry, antibiotics and urgent care doctors. Modernity, at its most convenient.