The Bucket
The night after my first marathon. No diagnosis.
My fiancé at the time, God bless him, brought me a bucket. You might have done this while camping, but peeing in a bucket, mere feet from the toilet, is a very humbling experience.
After slowing pulling myself to the edge of the bed, I needed to make the final transition to my white rolling desk chair. Let’s call this next move ‘the final descent’, the point when my pride took the day off and my fiancé offered the bucket…
I pulled myself to the edge of the bed and with a quick push off with the arms and gentle lowering onto the seat, I let out a guttural howl and the tears began to flow. I was crying from the searing pain in my hip, but also as I gave into the devastation of this moment. I couldn’t lower myself into a chair without feeling like someone was cutting my leg off. But worse, I still had to pee.
My fiancé continued to squeeze my hand as I shook from the pain.
Enter the bucket.
A large, 2 gallon fisherman’s bucket. Now, forever entitled “Beth’s last shred of pride, pee bucket”.
I asked my fiancé to leave the room. The rest will be burned into both our memories.
The day my fiancé earned his husband card 5 months before we wed.
