Urinetown
the next dive, a diaper-wearing military woman fighting Lyme disease.
Inside a chamber, forever changed from this ascent, descent into one
who publicly pees. I forgive myself. I cleaned the floor, I wiped myself.
Lana, let it go. Remember who I am. I just had a full bladder of IV in
Urinetown. Look around. I’m still here. Humiliation seeming ever-near.
Much to my humiliation, I had more stored up, URINE of
or not in the chamber, this yellow submerge is a top-10 shamer.Urinetown
A PICC line dangles from underneath a designer blouse,
again at Dr. Sultana’s office, in MD, a home, pseudo house
filled with the sounds of Lyme patients, families, IVs, doubt,
foot baths, hyperbaric oxygen chambers. An unreliable bladder.
I emptied it before entering one of the oxygenated submarines.
Much to my humiliation, I had more stored up, URINE of
no limits. Just in case, check on me, every fifteen minutes.
They did. Sort of, or maybe time just then slowed down.
I have to go. Now. Texting. Calling. Banging on the fake
Meanwhile, I avoid also soaking my blouse, socks, remaining
Too late. No one came. I stood up. Out came a lake
of yellow pee. I made my own yellow submarine. In the
chamber, on the floor. I can’t stem the tide, quick run
outside of the zippered submarine. I am still peeing.
In Urinetown. There’s a flood on the ground and now my
designer Theory pants are soaked to their labeled brim.
Meanwhile, I avoid also soaking my blouse, socks, remaining
I fashion a non-designer skort of paper towels and scrunchies.
Don’t look. I can’t stop the flow, I squeeze. This is
humor-ish humiliation. I make it to Dr. Sultana’s bathroom,
screaming obscenities at the yellow submarine and its trail
of pee pee drops. I’m 55. I find baby diapers in there, but no
towel, no robe, no emperor, nothing for covering the shame.
“Lana?” Don’t say my name.
I fashion a non-designer skort of paper towels and scrunchies.
I’m numb, devoid of any definable sensation, except frustration
away in the toxin-emptied sink, sniff, pants. There’s a faint stink —
of Urinetown, throw them in the trash. Rid evidence of my pee
that has finished its share with the public. I’m washed in baby soap
and hand sanitizer. I march a paper-toweled tush and humiliation
into the pseudo-spa room, squat in the sauna to let the heat soak
Add it to the list of humor-ish humiliations. I will be like an astronaut
I’m numb, devoid of any definable sensation, except frustration
and total, fucking resignation. Well, I’m human. I peed and turned
the submarine yellow along with its oxygenated healing vapors of
air. People have begun to stare. I don’t care. I finish an IV and enter
that spa sauna to collect Theory pants. Replace paper-towel of skort,
I look to shirk and skirt away as quickly as I can. From Urinetown.
Add it to the list of humor-ish humiliations. I will be like an astronaut
the next dive, a diaper-wearing military woman fighting Lyme disease.
Inside a chamber, forever changed from this ascent, descent into one
who publicly pees. I forgive myself. I cleaned the floor, I wiped myself.
Lana, let it go. Remember who I am. I just had a full bladder of IV in
Urinetown. Look around. I’m still here. Humiliation seeming ever-near.
And yet, tomorrow is another day. I choose to stay. Whether I pee
or not in the chamber, this yellow submerge is a top-10 shamer.
