Something I am bursting to tell you
Lately, I have been waking up between two and five times a night to go have a wee.
My paranoid nature, fuelled by decades of ominous forecasting by my diabetes-obsessed family (my dad had it, and it made most of our lives a bit hellish) interprets this as a sure sign that I have not managed to escape the genetic predisposition to stop producing insulin.
My hypochondriac side alerts me instead that it must be a prostate-related problem. After all, I am not exactly a spring chicken, and I am fast approaching the age for it.
My level-headed live-in boyfriend (who keeps being woken up by my shuffling back and forth to the loo) suggested that I might simply try stopping drinking cup after cup of tea up to the very moment I go to bed.
So last night I had one last cup at 6pm, and that was it. I skipped my usual bottle of water with dinner, and I also refrained from snacking on fruit after dinner, which was quite hard as there is a very ripe melon in the fridge with my name across half of it.
It felt like when I was a little bed-wetter, and was not allowed to drink anything in the evening. If I was sent to the kitchen to fetch some water to bring back to the dining room, I was instructed to whistle to prove that I was not sticking my face under the faucet guzzling down gallons of water. A harsh measure perhaps, but as a working mum the last thing you want to do in the morning is start a machine of pissed-on linen - every single bloody morning.
Back to last night. I was falling asleep but, prompted by Dr B., made an effort to go and see if I could squeeze a few last drops out. I did - and then I slept uninterrupted the whole night. Just a coincidence? Time will tell.
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