Well, there is some good that came out of the bladder infection that arose after the last post.
First, Gary no longer feels that his dirty, dirty organ is causing the bladder infections, given that a fresh-from-the-box silicone toy cocked everything up this time. He's now blaming my dirty, dirty bladder, and even says the MS nerves are to blame for not voiding that puddle of stagnant pee.
Second, when I finally landed in the ER last night, the staff said that "prescribing" myself my six-year-old antibiotics was a good call. I was astonished. I fully anticipated a lecture about expired drugs, and not taking a full course, and did you go to medical school. Not so. Not a bad idea, they said. Of course, it only bought me a few days. When the infection rose again I was willing to gut it out until I saw the actual flecks of bloody flesh accumulating in the commode.
Thats what got me the nickname. I heard the nursing station say the words "pink pee" a few times. "Pink pee!" I thought, "I bet that's my pee!" Because it was a lovlely shade of magnolia pink, like an eighties carpet. Then I realized Pink Pee was me. "Chest Pain is waiting on his labs, Pink Pee's resting comfortably."
I kind of like that level of familiarity now. Just this morning at my mammogram (it was a day bookended by hospital visits), the nurse took hold of my breast and tugged on it to move me over a half step. It made me laugh. A few years ago I would have found that degrading. Now I have no airs. My breast is a meat handle; I am Pink Pee.