I’ve been relating a lot with Johanna throughout this book,
but this week—this week she became my Patronus.
Here’s the thing, friends: Most women get 1 urinary tract or bladder infection (aka cystitis) in their lifetime, maybe a
handful if they’re not careful. I’ve had . . . somewhere closer to 50?
I started getting them in my late teens, and anything could
set one off. In college, I figured they were flaring up more often because I was
drinking too much coffee and not enough water and getting so engrossed with my
studies that I sometimes forgot to pee in a timely manner. And when I
got married, hoo boy did I level up because of reasons—to monthly UTIs and even
the occasional kidney infection. My mom tells me that the propensity for
this affliction goes way back among the women in her family.
 |
| Maleficyst. |
I feel as teenage werewolves must, the first time they explain the hereditary nature of lycanthropy to their adolescent peers, the night after something awful happened with the full moon and a friend’s cat.
"It’s passed down from my mother’s side," they would say, apologetically—collar still hanging from their mouth, displaying a small bell and a disc bearing the legend TIBBLES.
Caitlin, if you’re reading this, I have tried and failed for
half my life to describe the very particular agony of such an infection, often
to a concerned party on the other side of the bathroom door as I drink my 10th
bottle of water and my legs go hopelessly tingly from sitting too long on the
toilet. I have often considered investing in a cushioned, heated toilet seat. I started AND finished The Poisonwood
Bible whilst sitting in a tub of scalding water. And I have never, ever,
ever seen the humor in any of this, but I can't very well ignore it now, can I? Also, I can mark this passage and present the book to people by way of explanation before I disappear into the bathroom for 8 hours:
I begin my tinkle, and have the exciting chance to watch my face contort in sudden and total agony. HELLO. This piss is apparently made of boiling poison. Boiling poison, a billion Lilliputian arrows, and a wildly rotating whirligig, made of Satan's pinlike teeth.
 |
| Shhhh...pain is your home now. |
I also really enjoyed the focus on Johanna and Krissi’s relationship in this section. When they hung out in Johanna’s room, bonding over music, it made me miss my brother. (Hi, Ryan, if you’re here! Sorry about when I talked about my bladder.) We never really had any discussions about music, as the elder Morrigan siblings do on this occasion, but some of my fondest memories of my brother come with a specific musical soundtrack: the day we hung out in his attic bedroom at my grandparents’ house, listening to Smashing Pumpkins and Rage Against the Machine and feeling grievously misunderstood; the times I snuck in to clean his room while he was out (cleaning is my love language, yo), singing along to his copy of No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom or Green Day’s Dookie; any number of occasions that warranted our top-of-the-lungs belting of songs by a Star Wars theme band called Twin Sister (WE DON’T SERVE YOUR KIND HERE, WE DON’T SERVE YOUR KIND).
But aside from these two points of personal significance that I spent
all my time talking about this week, Johanna was really busy in this section getting
her first kiss and then kissing all the kisses, pretending to be sexually
liberated, writing brazen letters to John Kite (who's still wonderful, BY the way), making poignant statements
about the nature of cynicism and the most important aspect of sex (“You get a
whole person to yourself, for the first time since you were a baby. Someone who
is looking at you—just you—and thinking about you, and wanting you, and you
haven’t even had to lie at the bottom of the stairs and pretend you’re dead to
get them to do it.”), making oblivious comments to her obviously gay brother
about the Bee Gees being so gay and
how if there were any gay people in Wolverhampton they would probably be shot . . .
very busy INDEED.
All that’s left now is to finish the book, and I simultaneously
cannot wait and am so sad to see it end.
This continues to be a readalong hosted by Emily at As the Crowe Flies (and Reads!) and made possible by the lovely people at HarperCollins. Look, you. Stop mucking about and preorder the book from Odyssey Books or your favorite indie bookseller.
