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The Urethra Monologues, Part Three: In Which I Look Forward to Twenty Shots to the Bladder

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For those of you tuning in late, here are parts one and two . During my first two years self-catherizing, my urologist tweaked my medications multiple times to further reduce the frequency of my urination--and to eliminate my nocturia, which is a fancy way of saying "the need to get up in the middle of the night to pee." Vesicare was rejected because it made me so thirsty I drank enough to offset any positive effects it might have. Oxybutynin was replaced with a higher dosage of Doxazosin, which was eventually revealed to be the cause  of my leakiness. So long, Doxazosin! Then Myrbetriq came along and put the rest to shame. Effective with no side effects (for me, at least), it was a godsend. A very expensive godsend ($60/month copay if memory serves) but a godsend nonetheless. Still, I almost never peed the mere six times a day that self-catherization initially promised. It was time to try something new. In the summer of 2015, my neurologist suggested a urogynocologist w

Dance Dance Termination: In Which I Wax Nostalgic About My Dancing Days

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When I was four years old I began taking ballet classes. Clad in a black leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet slippers, my best friend Suzy and I entered the glorified trailer that was the original home of the Augusta West Dance Studio together. In spite of being terrified by the ancient, chain smoking receptionist Tikie and disappointed that I'd have to wait months to wear a tutu on stage, I fell in love instantly. I loved the New York City Ballet towel on the wall. I loved my teachers, Miss Cindy and Miss Diane (and later, Miss Bea). I loved the Coke machine in the dressing room that sold grape soda in tall glass bottles. And, most importantly, I loved to dance. The Rainbow Connection - 1982 Two years of ballet were followed by a year of tap, a few of jazz (oh, the thrill of finally being old enough to take jazz!), and then tap and jazz. Each spring brought the three most exciting days of the dance year: 1) learning what song we'd dance to in the recital, 2) the cost

Stumbling Towards Ecstasy: In Which I Say Orgasm A Lot

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I learned about sex under the geodesic monkey bars at A. Brian Merry Elementary School in the first grade. My friend Brandy* stood amid a rapt group of girls, telling us what she's read in a book she found in her parents' bedroom. I was shocked. Surely no one would ever do that. Surely my parents would never do that. Ew ew ew. I got over it relatively quickly. In middle school an article in Glamour led me to my first, accidental orgasm, and, once I got over the initial shock (because, really, who is prepared for that first one?), I was a fan. No need to go into details here--I sorted out what worked for me and happily took things from there. As I got older, articles about women that were unable to achieve orgasm would cross my path occasionally and I'd wonder who these poor people were, thinking fondly of my bedtime triple from the previous night. Even the fumblings of inexperienced boys could usually get me where I wanted to be. In college I joked that if you looked at

Ch-ch-ch-changes: In Which I Stubbornly Resist Things That Make My Life Better

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The trend began with tears at the good CVS on Capitol Hill. The one with aisles so wide that two people can pass each other without having to turn sideways. The one with a nice selection of greeting cards. The one with a rack of canes near the pharmacy. It was spring 2010. Birds were chirping, and I was raising money for the MS Walk, which I jokingly referred to as the MS Stumble. I walked reasonably well back then, but my stamina was fading. Neal pulled a cane off the rack and wisely/annoyingly pointed out that now might be a good time to give it a try. I didn't quite point out that he could go to hell, but I did resist, first angrily and then dissolving into a puddle of tears and acquiescence. He paid $25, and I was the defeated owner of a drug store cane, which made its debut at the Walk and became increasingly present and useful over the years. The next battle was shower grab bars. "They'll reduce the value of our home!" A shower bench. "It's so ugly!

What's a Nice Girl Like You Doing on a Scooter Like This: In Which We Examine Life with MS for the Vain

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Back in middle school, my BFF Sarah and I would spend Friday nights on her four-poster bed, a fan pointed directly at us so we could snuggle under all of the covers no matter the time of year, talking into the wee-est of hours. Our favorite game was "What would you do?" and it went pretty much as you'd guess - one would ask the other the question, invariably about a boy's action. The game almost always began with "What would you do if [insert boy-of-the-week's name here] put his hand on your leg and told you you needed to shave?" This led to a flurry of giggles and protestation from the person being questioned because neither of us would ever  be caught with less than silky smooth legs when boy-adjacent. Oh, how times have changed. I wince every time I catch a glimpse of the pelt on my legs presently. It's only a couple of weeks' growth; I am a quarter Italian, so genetics are against me in the battle against body hair. Until the past year I

The Urethra Monologues, Part Two: In Which I Am Thrust Into the World of Self-Catheterization

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Six months after braving Urodynamics, I was still on Doxazosin and pursuing a new approach: physical therapy. I first met with a wonderful woman outside of DC whose office was welcoming and yoga studio-like. I desperately wanted her to take care of me but knew that a 90 minute commute each way via Metro (ah, the good old days when I still traveled independently!) was too much. She referred me to a rehab practice in DC where I worked with a woman who definitely knew her stuff but was significantly less nurturing. Under her tutelage I did Kegel after Kegel  to strengthen my pelvic floor. I was sent home with a rented device to put inside me  while I did my exercises. It was a hard and unpleasant couple of months, but I did come out of if with better bladder control. For a while. I continued to see the wonderful Dr. Phillips and returned for my second urodynamics study (some girls have all the luck!) the summer of 2012, two years after my first one. There were some unexpected updates.

The Urethra Monologues, Part I: In Which We Embark on the Long Road to Botox

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A few months after diagnosis (way back in 2004), it dawned on me that my frequent urination might be related to my MS. My neurologist put me on a few medications over the years in an attempt to calm this symptom None worked great and some came with annoying side effects like dry mouth, which caused me to drink more, which led to more urination, which defeated the purpose. In 2009, I asked for a referral to a urologist and met with the cheerful Dr. Shin, a young-ish dude with a fauxhawk (hey, it was 2004) and an easy manner -- upon learning we lived in the same neighborhood, he said, "Is it okay if I say hi when I see you? That freaks some patients out, talking to their urologist in public." I assured him it was fine so long as we weren't discussing my urinary habits. I believe Dr. Shin was more accustomed to dealing with men and their man problems, so at my next appointment I saw Dr. Phillips, a kind and good humored guy who knew a thing or two about neurological issues

Happy Valentine's Day: In Which I Offer Advice for Gift-Givers

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Thanks, Fashionable Canes.You know just how to make me feel special . . . by stylishly reminding me of my disability.  (To be fair, Fashionable Canes does indeed have some great canes. I just don't want one for Valentine's Day.)

Separation Anxiety II: In Which I Sing the Praises of a Really Good Physical Therapist

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I'm on my fifth physical therapist in this MS journey. The first was a stern older woman who tried in vain to strengthen my pelvic floor. (Yes, I realize that sounds like the plot of a niche porn.) The second was a dumb but pretty and oh-so-strong young man whom I dazzled with my knowledge of 80s music as he threw me to the mat again and again to teach me to fall properly. (He's the basis of my as-yet-unwritten smutty romance novel.) Next came another sweet and moderately helpful one at the Capitol Hill location of Physiotherapy Associates followed by Danielle at the same site. I highly recommend Danielle; she's encouraging without being cheerleader-y, good at banter (a must if you're spending 30+ minutes with someone twice a week), and a solid physical therapist. Given my recent struggles, though, when it came time for 2017's PT adventure, I decided to go for a pro. Pro, meaning someone with experience with neurological issues. Enter Molly. Well, first, enter Val