And it showed nothing.
I have "inflammatory polyps" in my urethra, but apparently they are pretty common. They used to cauterize them but they don't anymore because it doesn't treat anything.
And he doesn't think I have interstitial cystitis.
So then I had to pull options out of the doctor. He had this look on his face like we've done all we can do. What about another kind of infection? What about doing a biopsy? Well, we don't have the instruments/people to do that, sorry. And he's "good friends" with that awesome vulvodynia specialist I love.
Doctors seem to run out of juice by the second visit.
So I'm on hold with the dermatology department. He referred me to a woman who's leaving the Clinic but who is apparently a sleuth. Not many dermtologists will do biopsies down there, but maybe she can tell me which one of her colleagues will.
I will apply the scientific method myself. I'll get a biopsy. I'll see an allergist. I'll get a colonoscopy, or something. I just want to die except that I have this mystery to solve. Without the mystery I wouldn't want to die. Well, without the pain. If the pain turns out to be a dead-end mystery, I'll still want to die.
I'm 29. I can't have sex, I don't date, I have to fight to enjoy the seconds of my life. I'm miserable. I should be on pain meds, I know, because I'm getting extremely depressed. I can't eat well enough to reduce the pain because I'm so miserable. I want to run away or break windows or go naked everywhere. I want to lie in a field until my body starts to rot. I want to lie in the sun until I get skin cancer so no one can blame my death on me. But -- at least I have the mystery. It's keeping me alive.