The Accident
Nothing was the same after my accident. This story necessitates context just as much as a teeming bladder.
Spatial orientation has never been my strong suit. Neither has guesstimation. There could be anywhere from 30,000 to one million jellybeans in that jar. I always pick a Tupperware too small. You’d be horrified to see how I pack the dishwasher.
I have no idea how many jellybeans can fit into my bladder, but it’s probably five to seven. I know my bladder is small because an OB-GYN ultrasound technician told me. Told is soft. She threw this discovery across the room while twisting a lubricated wand between my legs like a ventriloquist in the part of Vegas where all happenings stay. Maybe it’s more of a Bangkok scene. Either way, she eureka-ed, “WOW! That is the smallest bladder I’ve ever seen!” “Thank you,” I replied, hoping my pores would take a hint.
I really was thankful. I’ve spent my entire life getting up from my seat. I’ve paid a toll of apologies for rubbing the back of my legs against the avenue of knees between me and the aisle. I’m the limiting factor on road trips. I was a bed wetter until third grade. Sleepovers were a no-go. I slept on a crunchy mattress wrapped in plastic like a sandwich packed for lunch. I wore pull-ups, which are diapers for kids old enough to read the packaging.
Eventually, a pediatrician gave me a buzzer to wear in my pull-up that woke me — and the entire household — up every time it detected a droplet of urine. A decade later, when I came home from college for Christmas, moisture triggered the buzzer, which my parents had kept as a relic of my childhood in a box with my first haircut clippings. (Your parents probably have a box of your DNA stowed away somewhere, too.) Classically conditioned to surface from deep sleep at the sound, my entire family collided in the hallway. No bells, but Pavlov’s dog finally got his wings.
Armed with the anatomical knowledge of my tiny bladder, I started to feel less like a leaky faucet and swaggered out of meetings and social situations like I had a doctor’s note. Until the accident.
You’re supposed to drink anywhere from eight glasses to your entire body weight of water per day. I drank closer to the body weight recommendation before driving to Sacramento, city of conferences, to visit a friend at a conference. It takes anywhere from two to 20 hours to drive from San Francisco to Sacramento. That day it took six. An oil tanker slid, tipped and popped open like a tube of crescent rolls, blocking both sides of the highway. I couldn’t see the accident, but much like Chernobyl, would affect me for years to come.
I was stuck in the middle lane. After seven minutes, I put the car in park. After 15 minutes, I changed the song every 20 seconds. After 35 minutes, the AC started blowing my baby hairs against my forehead and I opened the window in agitation. After 45 minutes, I crossed my legs and called my mom. After 55 minutes, I wished I were wearing a pull-up.
The pulse in my bladder knocked and knocked and knocked. I called my mom again for triage, but she showered me in “oh, sweetie.” I could see a Denny’s at the top of an exit ramp about 50 to 5,000 feet away. It seemed impossibly far away, almost celestial. Should I ditch my car and start running in an apocalyptic hurry? I made challah out of my legs. I debated getting upside down. I sat off to one butt cheek and gripped the steering wheel, trying to juice it. I peed and couldn’t stop until my bladder was empty. It felt like finally going past your belly button in a cold lake combined with giving in to eating bread when you’re on a diet. I called my mom. More “oh, sweetie.” I sat in my own puddle for another hour before traffic broke. Finally, I made it to the great Denny’s in the sky.
Death is the great release. It’s no coincidence that when you die, you pee your pants, romper, swimsuit, or whatever you choose to wear on your last day. Wetting your pants is a taste of your last sweet surrender. For a moment, you forget the anxiety and put down the fight. You give in to the warmth and get off the highway. You realize that what was waiting for you on the other side isn’t so scary after all. It’s a Denny’s, where you have to be a patron to use the restroom, even if it’s too late.
