So…Did They Culture It?

I’ve noticed something alarming.

The older we get, the shorter the distance becomes between,

“How have you been?”

and…

“So…did they culture it?”

I happened to mention to a friend that I’d developed a UTI. I wasn’t looking for medical advice. I was simply explaining why I’d disappeared for a few days.

Within minutes, I’d accidentally convened a symposium.

One friend was Team Cranberry.

Another became convinced the answer to all my problems was eating the ancient food staple kimchi every day.

Personally, if part of a food’s history involves being buried in the ground, I’m inclined to leave it there.

And then there’s my mother-in-law, our family witch doctor.

She never needs anyone else’s input.

She already has the answer.

All the answers.

Apparently, the moment people hear you have a UTI, everyone in your orbit becomes an honorary urologist.

“Any pressure?”

“How long has it been?”

“Any discharge?”

Let’s pause there.

I don’t ever want to hear the word “discharge” unless it’s attached to someone’s military service.

Meanwhile, David had become my personal medical researcher. I’d be quietly drinking my coffee when, from another room, I’d hear:

“Oh…”

Silence.

“Oh…that’s not good.”

Longer silence.

“Hmmm…”

My husband has an uncanny ability to narrate my anxiety before he actually tells me anything.

I suspect humans have been doing this kind of thing to one another for thousands of years. I imagine one cavewoman pointing to another and suggesting,

“You really ought to get that pterodactyl bite looked at.”

We even write children’s books about bodily functions.

Everybody Poops.

Which has always struck me as an odd title.

Who, exactly, do we need to reassure?

The child is usually demonstrating the central premise while you’re reading it.

Then comes potty training.

Possibly the first competitive sport in America.

Parents don’t ask if your child is kind.

Or curious.

Or joyful.

They ask if she’s potty trained.

“Emily was completely trained at twenty-three months.”

Wonderful.

Is there a medal ceremony…

or do they just mail it to your house?

Then daycare. Where your greatest fear isn’t that your child won’t make friends.

It’s that someone else’s child will throw poop.

Then adolescence arrives.

Congratulations.

Your body is changing.

Please spend the next sixty years pretending it isn’t.

Hide the smells.

Cover the pimples.

Control the hair.

Suppress the sweating.

And whatever you do…

don’t let anyone know your body is doing body things.

Dating is mostly an elaborate attempt to convince another human being that you don’t actually possess a digestive system. Marriage clears that misunderstanding up remarkably quickly.

Then, somewhere after fifty, a friend introduced me to my favorite phrase.

The Organ Recital.

I assumed she meant church music.

She did not.

It’s what happens whenever three people over fifty sit down for lunch.

Within minutes, someone brings up knees, someone else recommends a specialist, and before the check arrives, you’re discussing colonoscopies and dry eye.

And, apparently…

UTIs.

These conversations may be some of humanity’s finest work. Nobody really knows what to say.

Somehow, that has never stopped us from trying.

When we’re babies, someone changes our diapers.

When we’re toddlers, they celebrate because we finally use the potty.

When we’re teenagers, someone quietly reassures us that whatever horrifying thing our body is doing is probably normal.

Later…

our friends compare specialists.

Our spouses Google symptoms.

Our mothers-in-law become honorary physicians.

Maybe we haven’t become more obsessed with our bodies. Maybe we’ve simply become less embarrassed by our humanity.

Less afraid to accompany one another through it.

More willing to witness one another exactly as we are.

Gloriously human.

“So…did they culture it?”

isn’t really about a urine culture.

It’s just another way of saying,

“I’m here.”

P.S. If you’ve read this far through an essay containing the words UTI, poop, discharge, colonoscopy, and organ recital…

I’d say our relationship has legs. ❤️