Before we start down this river, I’d like to preface these next two posts with a bit of awkward trivia regarding my medical history. From ages 14 – 24, unbeknownst to me, I had a tumor the size of a cantaloupe in my abdomen pushing on my bladder.
During this tumor time, my sister Libby and I decided to bond by sleeping in a tent in our back yard. Our skinny bodies didn’t fill the two-man tent; a foot wide gap separated us. Sometime, during the darkest part of the night, I woke up needing to pee like a bat out of you know where. I ripped off my sleeping bag and clawed at the inside of the tent – no zipper.
I couldn’t even see to find my glasses. No glasses, no zipper. I scraped at the seams, panicked. Nothing. Desperate, I tried to reason through my predicament.
I thought to myself, I have two choices. 1) I can pee my pants and be wet the rest of the night, or 2) I can squat down in the gap between us and spray off the tent with a hose in the morning. Option 1 sounded miserable. Option 2 seemed better. Having only seconds to make a rational decision, I chose Option 2.
I squatted down, and unbeknownst to me, peed right on my sister’s head.
I went back to sleep and didn’t wake up until morning. In the morning, I woke up, and my sister was gone. At first, I was disappointed. Why would she wreck good times like these by bailing out on me? I found my glasses, and looked around. Ah, I thought, I was tearing at the wrong end of the tent. The pee had dried up, or so I thought, so I congratulated myself that I had made the right choice.
Libby wasn’t so sure.
Apparently, she woke up, unzipped the tent, went into the bathroom, took a shower, and slept comfortably in her own bed. I mean, I was asleep, so I’m not sure how she did it. You do what you have to do to come to grips with incidents like this, don’t you. Getting out of the tent and getting into the bathroom was a logistical feat, something I couldn’t have done that night, and I really admire her for it.