It is 3:50 AM and I am afraid as I begin this log entry. The darkness, usually a refreshing and revitalizing ally, has turned menacing. Its cool and seductive nature beckons me to yield to slumber and to possibly a subsequent messy catastrophe. It was not supposed to be like this.
It was February and I had just completed a brisk workout at the gym when I noticed a tinge of pink in my urine. Pink urine is generally not a good thing because it means something inside the body is bleeding. For a 62-year-old man it is just another reminder the grim reaper is closing in. At this age, the pops, cracks, leaks, and squeaks become more frequent and there are usually no serious consequences. However, leaking blood was a little concerning even though there was no pain or dizziness.
The Urgent Care center had me pee in a bottle and subsequently diagnosed the problem as a urinary tract infection so the doctor prescribed an antibiotic. He also recommended a follow up with a urologist if the bleeding continued.
All was well for a few weeks and the bleeding stopped. Then I visited the gym again and the bleeding resumed. It happened after walking a couple of miles on the treadmill. I tried to make an appointment with a urologist but by then the #coronapanic was gaining momentum and urologists were not seeing patients in the office. I was not interested in a “telehealth” consultation because I wanted a doctor to actually have a look at the jewels which could not be adequately examined over the phone. I was given a tentative office appointment in May in case the #coronapanic abated.
The office consultation was rough. Everybody wore masks, slathered hand sanitizer, and socially distanced the hell out of themselves. A young female Physician’s Assistant (PA) initially attended me. She was very polite and professional but things quickly got awkward when she asked to examine the jewelry and perform a prostate exam. She actually apologized to me but I put her at ease by telling her she had made my day. After a couple of awkward minutes, she told me everything looked good and I blushed. I thought they looked good too. I could not wait to get home and tell the Navigator who had been fondling the jewels.
The urologist came in later and explained he needed to take a look at my urinary bladder. Of course, in my mind that meant I had to lay down comfortably on a bed while a sophisticated machine took pictures of the bladder, kind of like an MRI. WRONG. He said he was going to stick a hose with a camera into the tip of my manhood and shove it all the way into the bladder. Yeah, him and what army?
He brought in the PA and I relented. The procedure was brutal and savage. It seemed like he put one drop of olive oil on that never-ending coil of cable before he unceremoniously shoved it in with both hands. I actually did not see how many hands he used because I was wincing so energetically. I saw stars and felt fire where no actual fire should exist. At one point, the doctor calmly stated, “Oh here it is. Wow! That’s a big stone. There’s no way you’re passing it naturally”. He then turned the monitor so I could see it. It was a nice gesture but I couldn’t see anything through my tears of agony. He twisted the cable around a little bit to get a better view of the stone and I thanked him not to torture me anymore and I was ready to confess to anything.
The doctor explained the large stone irritated the lining of the bladder which caused the bleeding. I was relieved at the news. Then he said he needed to go in again to blast the stone with a laser only this time it was a cable with a camera and a laser gun, hence a fatter cable. He called it a cytoscopy with ablation. He tried to put me at ease by explaining I would be under sedation during the procedure. I wanted to know if I would be out completely but he did not elaborate.
For three days after the candid camera episode in my bladder, my manhood felt like Mt. Vesuvius whenever I used the restroom. It felt like red hot lava spewed forth and incinerated everything in its path. Eventually, Pompeii was buried and life returned to normal. Until yesterday.
I was up early and the Navigator drove me to the surgery center for my 6:30 appointment. We left with plenty of extra time since I knew the Navigator would take new and exciting unexplored routes to the center. I was right but nonetheless we made it with 5 minutes to spare. The Navigator was not allowed to wait in the waiting room due to the #coronapanic so she went home.
After signing more documents than when purchasing our home, the nice nurses escorted me to the back room where they asked me to disrobe and put on the old butt-chilling surgical gown, they also gave me a tiny pair of socks with treads on the bottom. I am still confused as to why I would need treads on my socks during surgery. Will I be required to run around while sedated? Are they concerned my own socks do not have enough traction to adequately juke and jive around a linebacker?
I lay on the uncomfortable little gurney wearing my revealing gown and NFL sock-cleats for what seemed an eternity. My doctor arrived late but was in good spirits and greeted me. I asked if he would kindly slather copious amounts of slippery goop onto the entire length of the firehose he intended to insert into my manhood. I wanted to avoid turning it into a blunderbuss. He laughed and I trembled.
Finally, the nurse anesthetist administered some soothing stuff into the IV port and I relaxed. Another nurse wheeled me into the operating room where I was greeted by another nurse and possibly Dr. Who because in the next instant I woke up in another room. A smiling nurse asked how I felt. I felt good but something was not right. Then the nurse explained about the Foley catheter.
Apparently, during the procedure, my doctor pretended he was Luke Skywalker in a Tie Fighter blasting the evil Death Stone with his laser. The movement of the Death Stone had irritated some blood vessels so he used the laser to cauterize them. As a result, I was now equipped with a Foley catheter.
For the uninitiated, a Foley catheter is an ancient torture device consisting of a flexible rubber hose connected to a baggie. The hose is inserted into the last place you would ever want to insert it. The 25-foot-long section (or so it seems) of hose is pushed in as far as it can go until it hits the bladder or thyroid glands, whichever comes first. Then, a section of it is inflated, like the Hindenburg, to lock it into the bladder (or thyroid).
The purpose of the catheter is to allow whatever blood or urine is inside the cavity to drain. Seeing as how my manhood has recently been widened much like the Palmetto Expressway, I did not see a reason for the catheter. I am certain I can now comfortably pass a basketball through my newly expanded urethra.
Living with a catheter is challenging. The baggie automatically fills up with urine. You do not need to get up and go when nature calls – you just go. This is very convenient when enjoying a good NetFlix movie. When it gets a little full, you go to the restroom, unlash the baggie from your leg, pull out the little plug on the baggie, and drain it into the nearest porcelain throne. Presto! However, it is inconvenient when it is time for bed.
If you are fortunate enough to be able to sleep like a rock, which I am, the catheter is not your friend. When you sleep, the baggie fills up to capacity and then some, becoming in essence, a water balloon. At this point, there is no safe way to drain the baggie because as soon as you pull the plug a powerful stream of stuff is ejected into the environment. The stream is fast and furious and can soak most of the bathroom in seconds if you happen to be drowsy and inattentive. Let me just say I disinfected our entire bathroom this morning at 3:00 AM before the Navigator even woke up.
I am afraid to go back to sleep because the baggie may fill up and pop before I get a chance to drain it. The Navigator is a very understanding person but there are limits. I do not want to find those limits. The catheter will be removed later today. Watch out Pompeii!
😂