
Their worth is in their suffering — and in the praise that is a byproduct of it.
I smell bleach. It’s coming from the laundry room, which is right next to my bedroom, where I am, on my bed, propped up on five down-alternative pillows, writing this.
I’m in my bed propped up on five down-alternative pillows tonight, because yesterday I was urinating blood.
There is bleach in the wash because little kids get their socks really filthy playing outside, and the medication I’m taking turned my urine pumpkin orange.
That’s probably more than you want to know about me.
Yesterday I was writhing — and trying to work and cook and bake and write — and urinating blood.
The blood was my bladder screaming, “I will not be ignored any longer.”
The doctor had me pee in a plastic cup, as they do. And wait on the paper-covered table, as they do.
There was a 35-year-old Polaroid camera in the room; you can’t even find film for a camera that old, I thought, the paper crinkling under my butt.
And, when I’d finally resolved to stop trying to figure out where one might acquire film for a 35-year-old camera, he came in, “Congratulations, Joni. You have a UTI so bad my machine can’t even read it.”
I like to give everything 110%, even my bacterial infections.
I like to give everything 110%… except myself.
