Is This How All Botox Parties End?

I mentioned several posts ago  that I was going to have botox injected into my bladder so that I could stop wetting my pants and pee at normal personal intervals without initiating code red urination emergencies every where I go. I had begun to feel as though I was just some pesky appendage of an angry bladder. But damn it! I'd come too far in life to be led around by a maniacal bladder. I wanted to be boss of my life and that included where and when pee breaks would occur.  So, I went ahead and had the surgery at the end of January. I'd show my bladder who was calling the shots.

The actual surgery was easy. I checked in, was put under, woke up, peed and was free to go. Always a fan of anesthesiologists as an ICU nurse, I was know in awe of their magical powers from a patient perspective. Joseph picked me up and drove us home. Unbeknownst to me the real drama wouldn't start until post-op week one.

The surgeon told me to expect results in the first 2 weeks, but within days I felt better. I wasn't getting up to pee 2 times every night, and I wasn't tripping over myself or my dogs to get to the bathroom. However, about 7 days later, I suspected I had a UTI. It wasn't easy to tell, because my bladder has botox in it. But, I knew. The improvement I had just begun to experience diminished, and something was just not right.

My bladder had sought revenge for being subjected to 100 units of botox. While I respected my bladder for putting up a fight while clearly at a disadvantage, I remained steadfast in my commitment to be boss. So I called the doctor's office, dropped off some urine and was prescribed antibiotics. I did indeed have a UTI. A week later, the antibiotics completed I was better but still something didn't feel right. Fortunately I had a surgery follow up appointment scheduled for today.

After two hours of waiting room fun, just as I was beginning to form a coup with other patients sick of waiting, I was called in. I had just told the receptionist I was about to leave and secretly vowed to never visit the urologist again. "Follow up smollow up!" I thought.

The nurse ushered me to a room and told me to empty my bladder so she could perform an ultrasound and ensure I wasn't retaining urine. The ultrasound showed that my bladder was retaining urine big time, like 300 milliters! I tried to pee again but it was no use. My bladder had struck again.

This is the part where I start crying. I'm told by the nurse I will be putting a catheter in my bladder twice a day to empty it completely. If I don't do this I'll continue to feel weird and I'll get more UTIs. As I'm sniveling the doctor comes in. Embarrassed I tell him and the nurse that "I'm not normally a crybaby." Here's a good question. Who the hell says crybaby at the age of 30?

Anyway my suspicion that people don't normally cry in the urologist office is confirmed when the nurse awkwardly tries to console me with this gem: "At least you're not peeing on yourself anymore."

I look up at her and agree. This is what it's come to. The bright side is I'm not urinating on myself. The downside is that I'm poking myself with a catheter twice daily until my bladder decides to wake back up (1-3 months). I knew going into the surgery that urinary retention was a potential complication. We've all seen what botox does to people's faces and the doctor had mentioned it. But I had been preparing myself to wake up from surgery and not be able to pee at all. Having already cleared that hurdle, I had deleted self catheterization from the menu of possibilites. Today, I was literally caught with my pants down by my bladder.

I want my bladder to know that while it may appear as if she has taken the lead in our war, she is mistaken. While it sucks that I have to self catheterize myself, it is my bladder who is on the receiving end of these pesky prods. So, who's winning this war? I suppose that like many wars, it's hard to say and in the meantime, we both suffer. Luckily for me and my bladder, there is a definitive end in sight.