I know pain.

You can think you know pain, but you don't know pain until you have a Urinary Tract Infection. And when it spreads to your kidneys, then you really know pain.

I generally don't have issues "down there," other than cramps that could cripple a bronchosaurus. No infections, never.

Today I experienced pain "down there" that I can only equate to what I suspect tribal genital mutilation must feel like.

It's a constant feeling, even after the last drop of pee drops from your privates, like you are going to pee your pants before you even stand up from the toilet and pull your pants up! I have never felt anything like it. And when you *do* pee, when you let out a good stream of clear liquid, it's like having an orgasm, until the end of the stream, which feels like the pit of peach was soaked in gasoline for 4 days, placed in your urethra and now you need to push it out.

I screamed in pain in the bathroom stall at work as I white-knuckled my knees and bite down on the collar of my sweater that I shoved into my mouth.

Holy Shit. I have *never* felt anything like this.

And then I see blood.

Not a lot of blood, but enough to make the toilet water a hint of pink.

That put me over. I considered going to the hospital. I drank quarts of cranberry juice through a straw, switching gulps of that with chugs of water. All of this liquid made me pee more and everytime I found myself biting down to suppress the scream when it felt like a knife was going to cut my cl** out.

I know pain.

Finally, I broke down and called my doctor. I had to have her paged. She called me and asked me why I waited all day to call her after I explained the incredible pain I was in. I explained how I was self-treating but could not wait another minute - I was considering checking into a hospital and having myself catharized to flush out the infection faster.

The idea of catherization now appealed to me like the thought of a soothing mud bath or rubbing buttercups on my nose.

She sighed. "I really want to run some tests, but obviously I am not going to make you sit out the weekend in this condition." I audibly sighed with relief at this beacon of hope, like seeing the AAA Tow Truck pull up when your car breaks down deep on a dirt road in the KKK-filled hills of Virginia.

While I waited for her to call in the prescription, I researched this condition online. Apparently, 8 out of 10 women get it at some point in their lives. And in a testimonial on WebMD, one women who had 3 children, said that this infection was more painful than childbirth.

More painful than childbirth. HELLO.

Basically, Christ nailed to the cross and bleeding out was possibly experiencing *less* pain than my throbbing plumbing.

My roommate and I laid in my bed thumbing through magazines and made fun of celebrities while trying to kill time before I could get the prescription.

We walked down to the drugstore and I prayed that I wouldn't pee myself.

I picked up the medication and my roommate asked, "What'd you get?"

One word summed it up. "Cipro."

She looked and me and says, "No way." Yep, I said.

"Well, you're screwed," she replied matter of factly. "Why?!" I asked.

"Beeeeeeeeeecause," she said, like I'm special ed and take a little bit more time to understand everything. "Now if there's an outbreak, you'll be immune. And you know they found traces today in Connecticut."

I shook my head and didn't say anything. All I could think about was that I would chew on one of these tablets like a Now and Later if it would stop this pain.

And frankly, death by Anthrax would be a peaceful repose in comparison to this UTI.

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