- 7:14 p.m.
My therapist (ish) gives me writing assignments to work things out. This recent one was supposed to be about bedwetting (don't ask). I thought I'd share it because, well... maybe some bedwetters are reading.
Let's stay dry out there.
"The Bedwetters" ©Lv2write00
Certain aromas bring her right back to home. Fresh bread baking; pouring rain as it falls from the sky, White shoulders perfume ….and dried urine. Yes, that’s right, I said dried urine. A person gets used to the scent, especially if it’s produced by loved ones.
This dark haired girl, now a woman, came from a long line of bedwetters.. the wetting went way back. Probably on the way over to this country her people were wetting the bunks way down below deck on the ocean liners. At Ellis Island, if a distant great-great aunt had accidentally fallen asleep on a bench, you could bet your weeks salary that when she got up that bench was damper for having known her.
The pressure was incredible to continue the legacy and carry on with the family traditions. Try as she might, she couldn’t do it. Every morning, upon waking, her heart filled with hope, she jumped out of bed, pulled back the sheets…. And, nothing. Dry as a bone lying in the middle of the dessert on a piece of dry toast next to an empty glass. We’re talking dry.
All her siblings had been wildly successful bedwetters and made their parents very proud. Her oldest brother had even gone to the nationals, although eventually losing out to a younger girl with what the papers described as an “unusually enormous bladder capacity and strong urine stream”. She’d heard that after winning the girl got an endorsement deal from a pajama manufacturer. Some people have all the luck.
Her parents took her to a specialist who suggested certain activities that might help: binge drinking of kool-aid right before bedtime; several slices of watermelon to be consumed throughout the day; “holding it in”, if you will, when turning in for the night. None of it worked. Dry, dry, dry.
She could see the disappointment in her parents’ faces at the breakfast table as she looked up from her frosted flakes. Her older sister scurried by, carrying her nights wet results out to the garage for laundering, all the while whistling a happy tune of accomplishment.
With desperation as her co-pilot, she’d decided to try faking it. She’d saved a days worth of, you know, in a Tupperware container under the bathroom sink. After everyone went off to bed with his or her naturally full and weak bladders, she’d snuck the precious liquid into her bedroom, being careful not to wake her sister. She realized it was too early for her “accident” to take place, so she set the container on her nightstand and drifted off to sleep knowing full well that when she awoke for her middle of the night bathroom visit, she’d stage her “incident” instead. Heavy sleep be damned! The next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake by her mother who stood beside her bed, with a disapproving look covering her face. Her mom held the container in her hands. The jig was up. She’d been caught.
Her older sister, hearing the conversation, awoke from her nights sleep. She got out of bed, her urine-drenched nightgown clinging to her legs. “What’s the matter?”, she asked innocently. The familiar scent rose from her bed, then filled the room. “Don’t rub it in”, the younger sister cried as she fled, unsuccessful once more.