The gods chose to bestow some things only on women; things – like childbirth and Urinary Tract Infection (UTI) – so painful that men, if forced to deal with them, would fling themselves off cliffs en masse like lemmings, and thus put a swift end to all mankind.
During my visit to Doctor Neighbour on Wednesday, I mentioned a slight discomfort in my lower abdomen. “Watch it and keep me posted” he said.
Thursday passed in a medication-induced and fluey haze and I went to bed early, only to be woken at 3am on Friday morning by excruciating pain, fever and nausea. By 9am, when Doctor Neighbour’s rooms opened, there was blood in my urine. I called the good doctor, who immediately sent me a 7-day course of antibiotics and some strong painkillers, saying that the symptoms should begin to abate in a day or two.
Later, I declined my husband and daughter’s invitation to go to a movie, telling them I felt too sick and sore, and that they should see to their own supper when they got home. I took a hot bath and my pills and, like a wounded hound, crawled into bed.
They got home at 7.45pm and my husband put his head in the bedroom door.
“Are you in bed already?” he said.