Monday, July 2015. A cold winter night in a local Italian restaurant. My wine glass is empty and I’m bursting to go to the loo. I leave my friends and rush to the toilet … ahhh, thank god. There are few things better than emptying an alarmingly full bladder. I return to the dining table, instantly need to again relieve myself, and race back to the ladies. This is odd. Why the double rush? And why the lack of notice from my body? Is this the start of my inevitable march towards diabetes?
I wake up.
Jumping out of bed I rush to the toilet. As I frantically run, I put my hands between my thighs to check …
Yes. I’ve wet myself. Jesus Christ.
I thrust open the bathroom door and catapult myself onto the loo, almost sliding off in my urgency. I continue what started while I was sleeping. Shocked. Baffled. How?!! How has this happened?!!
I hose myself off in the shower and return to the bedroom. I check the bed … my accident didn’t make it to the linen. Well, that’s something. Every cloud has a silver lining (even if the cloud just released a shower of yellow rain).
A long-forgotten conversation with a good friend pounces on me.
Him: “When was the last time you wet the bed?”
Me (honest and adamant): “Never. I’ve never wet the bed. Like all other normal adults!”
He thought nothing of an adult occasionally losing bladder control, particularly after a night of boozing. I thought differently.
But for the first time in my life I’ve wet the bed. And I’m sober.
This may be the tip of an ugly iceberg. Last week I threw up in my bed (again, for the first time, and again entirely sober). So this is life now, is it? A single, 38 year old woman, who sporadically vomits on her sheets and wets the bed.
Tired, I peel back the cool (dry) linen and slide into bed. Slippers lifts his head – annoyed at all the commotion.
Oh yes, and I’m a cat owner.
The future looks damp…