Have I told you about the last time I peed my pants?

I was 16.

No, not 16 months.  16 YEARS.  Long, boring story short, I had to have an ultrasound done because the doctor thought I had a cyst on my ovary.  Like every expectant woman, I was instructed to drink eight glasses of water an hour before the test.  I dutifully chugged the water, thinking that it wasn't THAT bad: what were all those pregnant women complaining about, anyhow?

Oh, I know.  It's called karma, kids.  She kicked my ass.

After about half an hour, I started feeling rather uncomfortable.  When my grandmonster arrived to drive me and Mom to the hospital (I have NO recollection as to why Mom didn't drive us herself, but thank jeebus we had an extra body), I was in so much pain I was doubled over.  By the time we got to the hospital (maybe a ten minute drive), I was in tears because it hurt. So. Bad.

Mom had to check me in because I couldn't speak through the tears and the hiccups and the sobs and the snot.  That is, until the receptionist held out a paper cup and asked if I could go "just this much."

*SNORT*

I managed to straighten up enough to look her in the eye and tell her that if I started, I wasn't gonna stop.  She told me to "just try."  I <strike>killed her with my eyes</strike> took the cup and hobbled to the washroom that faced into the waiting room.  The waiting room that held three other people. 

Just as I got to the door, SPLOOSH. 

My bladder had betrayed me and emptied itself all over myself and the floor in front of my mother, my grandmother, the receptionist, and three strangers.  I slammed the door shut, flipped the lock, and proceeded to sob my angst-ridden teenage heart out. 

While my world was in the process of ending (o hai, melodrama!), I got to listen to my mother attempt to stifle her screaming laughter as she asked me where to find me a change of clothes at home.  I stayed locked in the bathroom for the time it took her to drive home, find me another pair of shorts, and drive back.  I then had to deal with the incomprehensible fear of having to come back until it was determined that they could squeeze me in.

This time, they told me to only drink FOUR glasses of water.  Please not that number: it's important, I swear.

When the ultrasound tech called my name, I all but bounded into the room -- I felt GRRREAT!  I hopped up on the bed and laid there as she poked and prodded with the wand.  She hemmed and hawed to herself before explaining that, if the bladder is too full, it will obstruct their view.  She then fearfully asked if I could go "just this much" (a cup). 

Sure!  No problem!  My bladder isn't so full that it's squeezing itself out my nose!  I hopped off the table, did my business in the bathroom, and trotted back out.  She was able to view what she needed (no cyst), and that was that.

I was told to drink the standard eight glasses, which I expelled.  I was told to drink four glasses, which was too much.  MY TEENY, TINY LITTLE BLADDER ONLY NEEDED THREE GLASSES OF WATER, AND I HAD CONSUMED DAMN-NEAR THREE TIMES THAT!  It's little bloody wonder I peed myself!  Geesh.

The next time I had an ultrasound (looking for endo, that time), I drank four glasses on my way to the hospital and was just fine.

(*I* ended up diagnosing the pain as mittelschmerz when I was about 25, after seeing three different doctors and having two ultrasounds done.  Stoopid doctors.  Sometimes the simplest answer really is the correct one.)