U.T.I. 101

At 61 Corinne O'shaughnessy gets schooled in bladder infections and...some activities that tend to cause them.

Fernando Trabanco Fotografía/Getty Images

“What color is your urine?” the doctor asks as he unpacks a stethoscope from his leather backpack. When I had asked my Oaxaquena landlady for a doctor recommendation, she sent me his contact info and told me to message him. He messaged back right away.  I had been living in Oaxaca for nearly six months immersing myself in the culture while trying to learn the language. I had no idea urine culture, or cultivo de orino, would be an integral part of my vocabulary just as I was preparing to head back to New York. 

With my still beginner Spanish, I thought the doctor texted that I should come for a consult after 7:30 pm, so I asked him for his address. What he actually wrote was, I’ll come to your house for a consult. Like...to my house! If you have $40, which I’m very aware many people here do not, doctors in Oaxaca make house calls. 

I had been living in Oaxaca for nearly six months immersing myself in the culture while trying to learn the language. I had no idea urine culture, or cultivo de orino, would be an integral part of my vocabulary just as I was preparing to head back to New York. 

We met on the street so I could escort him through two locked gates, up dark metal stairs, and into my living room. He asks What color is your urine? again in different words, thinking I’m struggling with the Spanish, but I assure him I understand the question, I just don’t know and … this is triggering a lot. I’m so disappointed in myself for having a urinary tract infection in the first place and now I’m disappointed that I don’t know what color my urine is. I make a mental note to stop being so disappointed in myself. 

“Color?”  I’m trying hard to picture the toilet after I’ve used it. Blank. Completely blank. I’m 61, so every time I can’t remember something, I immediately think it’s early Alzheimer’s or short-term memory loss. I do remember many years ago, eating beets and later panicking when I peed what I thought was blood, but was just beet urine. That got my attention. But now? Truth be told, I don’t always flush the toilet. I know it sounds gross, but I exit a lot of places without turning around. It requires a patience I don’t always have and an ability to confront things I’d rather pretend weren’t there. But should I turn around more? Am I a faulty turn arounder? I start to feel disappointed in myself again. 

“No sé,” I finally answer. “No recuerdo.” He laughs a little. 

Lesson #1. Take mental notes of the contents of your toilet. Better yet, write them down, depending on how profound your lack of awareness or early Alzheimer’s is.

“Hay más burbujas?” he asks next. Again, I stare. Again, he thinks it’s the Spanish. But bubbles are important to me and were one of the first words I learned.  I make terrific vegan pancakes and I love drinking champagne. 

“Color?”  I’m trying hard to picture the toilet after I’ve used it. Blank. Completely blank. I’m 61, so every time I can’t remember something, I immediately think it’s early Alzheimer’s or short-term memory loss.

“Hay burbujas en orino?” I ask. There are bubbles in urine? I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. 

“Sí,” he tells me. “Está normal.” But if there are a lot of them, that’s a sign of infection. 

I have no idea what color my urine is or if there are any bubbles, never mind, more bubbles than usual.

Oh my god! I have not been present with my urine. 

Lesson #2. Notice bubbles in your urine. Be okay with them. Bubbles in your champagne and your pancakes can live side by side with bubbles in your urine. 

Next, he asks if he can examine me on my couch.

“Por supuesto,” I say. And yes, he’s cute and… too young and… probably married, but it’s still interesting to have a man ask me to lie down on my couch so he can examine me. 

He moves one of the decorative pillows and I lie down. 

“Duele?” he asks as he puts the stethoscope on different parts of my stomach and presses. 

“No, está bien.” Nothing hurts except the part of me he is definitely not pressing on. That part burns and frequently screams to be emptied even if there’s very little in there. 

I’m relieved when he says I can stand up, because lying down, a new wave of disappointment rolls over me. I probably have a UTI because of a vigorous love making session I engaged in a few days before, but it’s not an out in the open kind of thing, because we’re not an item. He’s just a man I have a thing with…an occasional thing.

Lesson #3. UTIs will trigger contemplating every personality defect you might have. Or maybe your personality is just fine. But UTIs will make you repeatedly question whether you actually know what you think you know. 

For instance, is your fine behavior in one country not fine in another? The whole morality is a question of geography type thing. Mexico is still very Catholic, even if it is less so than it was, say, in the 1950s, and I’m not sure, but I think I’m disappointed in myself for thinking these trysts are ok, because you know… When in Rome, do as the Romans...and most of Mexico would not be doing this. Or, at least, not be comfortable doing this. Or at least, the women would not be comfortable doing this. And some of the United States would not do this, either. But what really is not ok is that I’m worried that other people will judge me poorly in either country. I’m so disappointed in myself for worrying about this.

I probably have a UTI because of a vigorous love making session I engaged in a few days before, but it’s not an out in the open kind of thing, because we’re not an item. He’s just a man I have a thing with…an occasional thing.

After I stand up, cute, probably married doctor asks me to “gira,” and I know the word “turn” from my salsa class and I’m proud of this. Which takes a little edge off all my other disappointments. He feels my kidneys and is satisfied the infection has not spread there. 

He gives me a prescription and asks me to message him twice a day to let him know how I’m feeling. 

“Sí,” I repeat after him. “En la mañana y en la noche.” 

But I don’t message him. I can’t bother this man with my petty problems. He’s a doctor for goodness’ sake. I can’t message a doctor just to let him know how I feel. I hesitate to message friends for fear of bothering them.

When I don’t text, he texts me, around midnight the next evening. I’m awake, because who can sleep with a UTI and a hidden tryst situation that may make me a puta in most of Mexico, but a liberated woman in some parts of the world.  This doctor and I text with emojis and Please and Yes, I’ll let you know, but I still don’t know if I’ll let him know. I tell myself--Try. Try to embrace the idea of letting people know. 

Lesson #4. Sometimes people really do want to know. Without judgment. And part of what they may want to know is the color of your urine. 

Five non-functioning antibiotics later, I end up in the hospital receiving the sixth, intravenously.

When I don’t text, he texts me, around midnight the next evening. I’m awake, because who can sleep with a UTI and a hidden tryst situation that may make me a puta in most of Mexico, but a liberated woman in some parts of the world. 

An internist visits and pushes on my belly. It’s not a belly thing. My urologist visits and asks if I’m feeling better after a day and a half of the new antibiotic. I am. A gynecologist visits and asks if it feels like my vagina is involved, not just my urinary tract. 

“Yes,” I say. “I’m feeling discomfort there, too.” 

“Are you married?” 

Why this is always a question in every medical situation, I don’t know. 

“No,” I answer.

“Are you sexually active?”

Visions of Pope Francis and the Virgin Guadalupe float around the doctor’s head. 

“Yes,” I answer, looking for a smirk, or eye-rolling from any of them, or a cross to be removed from the doctor’s pocket, but they’ve all got good poker faces and the doctor’s hands stay by his sides. 

“Is sex painful?” he asks.

“No,” I say, but truthfully it was—just not painful enough to make me stop. At least, not until I ended up in the hospital.

“Well,” he says. “You’re at the age where vaginal atrophy is very common.” Atrophy is atrofia in Spanish so I’m following the Spanish easily, just not the diagnosis. I remember my college roommate’s right calf muscle was smaller than her left because of a skiing accident that led to her leg being in a cast, unused, for months. The muscle never regained its original size.

Oh my god, am I not using my vagina enough? Have I not been present with my vagina, either? 

He gestures for me to remove my panties and put my legs in the butterfly yoga position on my hospital bed. The female emergency room doctor who admitted me is with him, as is the nurse who’s been assigned to me. He pulls a flashlight out of his coat pocket and shines it on my lady parts. 

“Oh, wow,” they say in the Spanish equivalent, looking at me, each other, then sadly gazing at my privates again. “Oh, yes, that’s it. That’s the problem. Look at that atrophy.” 

“Well,” he says. “You’re at the age where vaginal atrophy is very common.” Atrophy is atrofia in Spanish so I’m following the Spanish easily, just not the diagnosis.

I should have been humiliated, and of course, part of me was, but I also had to bite my lip to not burst out laughing hysterically. My quest to immerse myself in another culture and learn a new language had ended here. In a hospital bed, a flashlight illuminating areas that need work. I decided to take that as a message.

Lesson #5. No one really cares if you’re having sex. But you should care about your vagina. And to avoid such a scene as the aforementioned, work that vagina, baby, work it. Because, yes, it’s a muscle and it needs to be worked. Any time I start judging myself for having casual sex, I think of the guy I was having a thing with as my “pelvic floor trainer.”