Pee in this Cup

WARNING! This story maybe be TMI for you. If you're not down with lingo, that means TOO MUCH INFORMATION. I'll give you a chance to exit this post and read something else. Like this.


















Still here, huh? Gosh, you're nosier than I thought. But don't say I didn't warn you.

June 2004

“Fill it up about half way,” the lab technician tells me, like I’m a Shell Station attendant filling up a fuel tank. I take the plastic cup with me into the bathroom and focus on giving it all I’ve got. I have to. Every drop has to go into that cup. This is a lot of pressure, especially considering the lab technician is listening outside the bathroom door.

An hour and a half earlier that day

It’s nearing the end of the work day. I’ve been working for a week now, but I still have to go take my pre-employment drug test. I have to take the drug test, even though I am clearly not a pot smoker. Cocaine is my drug of choice*.

            I’ve been drinking a lot of water in the past hour, so I’ll be able to go when I have to give my urine sample. You have to plan ahead for these types of tests. I work for another forty-five minutes, the bell rings, and it’s time to leave. While everyone else packs up to go home, I have to drive to the next town (forty-minutes away) to take my drug test. I’m all ready to leave when I realize I have a major dilemma. Mainly, I have to pee right now. I know that I cannot hold it for nearly an hour. No way. I decide that since I pretty much have to pee all of the time, I can just go before I leave, and by the time I get to the lab and fill out the paperwork, I’ll have to go again.

            I take care of business, hop in my car, and begin the long drive to the lab. So that I’ll be ready, on the way I’m chugging water like a camel that hasn’t drank for forty days. Bad idea, I find out all too late.

            Eventually I get to the lab, fill out a few forms, and get frisked. I’m asked to leave my purse in the lock box, and I have to empty my pockets of coins and vanilla chapstick. Clearly, my shifty demeanor clues the lab technician in to my cocaine use.

            “Fill it up about half way,” he tells me. Well sure, no problem. I always have to pee. I take the cup, size up my goal, and try to get started. One problem. I do not have to pee. At first I think it’s just nerves. I take a deep breath in, try to relax a little, try again.

            Eventually I emerge from the bathroom, shamefully holding the cup. I give it to the technician. I watch as he passes judgment on my urine. My godforsaken bladder has failed me. I have filled the cup, maybe 1/8 of the way full. It’s a ludicrously small amount. The technician doesn’t say anything except, “Sign here.” But I know what his judging mind is thinking. Damn crack addict can’t follow directions. Probably shook so much she spilled it all in the toilet. He gives me a toothy grin and tells me I can gather my things.

            I begin the 80 minute trip home. Thirty minutes into the drive I am physically in pain. Squirming in my seat, I begin to break the speed limit. I have never had to pee so badly in my life. 

June 2007

After landing a much needed job, my supervisor calls me and tells me I just have to go take a pre-employment drug test. I think to myself, No problem, I’ve quit doing coke. The day of my drug test I wake up, drink a tall smoothie for breakfast, and get ready to leave. I consider peeing before I leave, because I always pee before I leave, but my mind flashes back to the summer of 2004. I can hold it this time. I drive to Human Resources, fill out some papers, and then get the map to the lab. The woman at the lab asks me if I have anything in my pockets. I say no. She gives me the cup. “Fill it up about half way.” Well, that was expected.

I take the cup into the bathroom with me, relieved that I finally get to pee. There’s a bit of trouble getting started, but then I think I’m doing pretty well. I give it all I’ve got. I check the cup. I didn’t have to pee as much as I thought I did. Not quite half way. Not too shabby, though. I exit the bathroom and hand the cup over. The technician’s quite skeptical. “I’m not sure if this will be enough,” she states. Like I had a lot of control over the matter. I mean, what do you want me to do, sit in the waiting room for an hour so my bladder can fill up? The lab technician proceeds to pour my urine into two cups. I see quite clearly that there is a minimum fill line. She fills up the first cup no problem. As she fills up the second, smaller cup, I cross my fingers and hope that it makes it. Just barely. I’m pretty proud of myself. I mean, drug tests are almost harder than the SATs. The technician labels my urine and I sign for it, under the “donor” box. Donor. Makes it sound like I’m saving lives by giving away my pee. 

I drive home without any problems of discomfort.

*I am not a current or previous user of cocaine or any other illegal substance.