I think most girls would agree when I say that a urinary tract infection (UTI) is one of the most unpleasant experiences possible. A quick Google search will tell you one in five American women will experience a UTI sometime in her life. According to the Mayo Clinic staff, “Infection of the urethra can occur when the gastrointestinal bacteria make the short trip from the anus to the urethra. In addition, because of the female urethra’s proximity to the vagina, sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), such as herpes simplex virus, gonorrhea and chlamydia, also are possible causes of urethritis.” I mean, that just sounds like an accident waiting to happen. But somehow, I had dodged UTIs, in all their bloody, painful and burning glory, for 20 years. I was in the bread aisle of HyVee when I realized that I had to pee. I mean, I really had to pee. I rushed to the bathroom and realized not only did I produce almost no urine, but what urine I did pass was accompanied by an intense, cutting pain. I knew vaguely what a UTI should feel like, and after picking up a jug of cranberry juice I decided to go see the doctor. I should say that at the time, I had been in a stable relationship for more than a year. I didn’t even suspect the possibility of an STI, so when I went to see a doctor I was expecting a fairly cut-and-dry UTI diagnosis. “How many sexual partners have you had in the last six months?” “One.” “How many in the last year?” “One. I’ve been the same relationship for over a year” “How many sexual partners has your partner had?” “One.” So far, the nurse had conducted her line of questioning without so much as looking at me. She was hunched over the desk scribbling madly, and we spent the entirety of the conversation without actually facing each other. But I remember at that answer the nurse paused her writing and looked up to shoot me what I could only identify as a look of scathing skepticism. I guess, just like anyone else, I was always shy when I had to talk about the more intimate details of my life in the doctor’s office. But there, under the fluorescent lights, fully clothed and telling this stranger about my sexual habits so that she could jot down notes on a piece of paper, I suddenly felt ashamed. What started as my own suspicion of a normal UTI quickly turned into a dubious investigation of my sex life. I felt stupid for not suspecting that my boyfriend had given me an STI and consented to a round of STI tests. No, I didn’t have an STI. It really was a UTI, but I left the office that day wondering why it had been so easy for a stranger to make me feel ashamed of myself. At some point, medical routine had become an assault on my personal life. I now have a jar of cranberry extract pills that I take every day to help prevent UTIs. Burning, painful urination is no treat, but neither is going to the doctor.
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