The Urine Sample

When I was just twenty-five, my period was a day late.

Such was my impatience, I decided to activate

a plan to get checked out, to see my local physician,

to explain my situation, to elucidate my position.

I made an urgent appointment to expedite the proceedings

and was told they needed my wee to analyse the lack of bleedings.

I’d never done a test before, never given any sample.

As an unexperienced patient, I wasn’t a good example

of someone versed in medical praxis, or surgical routine,

and so, when they asked me for my urine, I thought it quite obscene.

I pondered this request, and fretted about the logistics

of providing them with piddle of respectable characteristics.

My Irish mum had birthed ten kids, she would know the protocol

of getting a urine specimen with no hassle at all.

She was from another generation, a different mentality.

She would be well versed in every practicality.

“Sure, just sterilise a jam jar,” she said, “and hold it under your flow.

You’ll have the finest sample any doctor could wish to know.”

I took heed of her advice, but to honour the appointment

sought a larger recipient to avoid disappointment.

So, I rummaged in the back of the cupboards, searched on every shelf,

until I found a honey flagon, which would serve the purpose well.

It had a pretty gingham lid, more aesthetically satisfying.

And was much more practical for the moment of supplying

a substantial quantity of early morning mid-stream flow

of the finest specimen ever collected, my wee with golden glow.

So, I scraped the label off, and tipped out the honey excess,

then boiled the jar for an hour to achieve maximum success.

It pleased me that after boiling it, and scrubbing it as well,

the jar still possessed a faint sweet honey smell.

And so, the moment came to provide my early morning sample

I sat on the loo, legs akimbo.  The jar was more than ample.

The wee swished into the jar, full bodied, a fine bouquet.

I managed to fill it up, to well over halfway.

I screwed on the gingham lid and examined my pee.

It wasn’t a port or a sherry, it was the finest of Chablis.

Green apple notes, crisp, sharp, zesty and light,

tones of straw yellow, a veritable delight.

For any enologist or for any wine aficionado,

the colour was just perfect, a pure dorado.

I headed off for my appointment, the wee sloshing about.

I knew they’d be impressed with me.  Of that I had no doubt.

I slapped it with aplomb on the surgery counter,

and looked all about me, ready to encounter

a high five from the receptionist, a nod of respect,

but the reaction I received, I never could expect:

a withering look of horror, a glare of derision.

The receptionist looked up firmly and made a quick decision.

“How is that even sterile?  It must be contaminated!

Go flush it down the toilet,” she firmly berated.

And all the while behind me in the doctor’s waiting room,

I could hear stifled sniggers, from other patients, I assume.

The receptionist gave me a tiny pot and sent me on my way.

I left, tail between my legs, riddled with dismay.

At home I tried hard to get the deed done,

but the wee went everywhere like a multiple jet spray gun.

And so, ends the tale of my urinary collection

which started so positively but ended in dejection.