A few years back my ding-a-ling went on strike. Peeing became less of a “steady stream” and more of a “slow drip coffee,” so I booked myself in with a urologist. After a cystoscopy (that’s a camera adventure up the you-know-where), the doc suggested a prostate reduction, also known in the trade as a TURP, or as us regular folk prefer: the ol’ roto-rooter job.
Operation went fine, or so I thought, and after a few days of sporting my new fashion accessory — the catheter — I was set free to let the waters flow. And they did! Until one morning, when I woke up dammed tighter than Hoover. No flow. Zero. Nada.
Mild panic set in. My wife, Dian, chauffeured me to the ER, where I was parked half-naked on a bed like an abandoned turkey waiting for stuffing. A doctor eventually strolled by, peered at the problem, and announced, “We’ll just slide something up there to clear the way.”
Enter two nurses: one experienced, one still new to the rodeo. The elder gave marching orders, and the younger got handed the honors of navigating Lil’ Orley the Cabbage Worm. Unfortunately, Orley wasn’t exactly cooperative. She tried once. Nope. Tried again with lube. Nope. At this point her hands were so slippery with the K-Y jelly that Orley kept vanishing into her grip like a whack-a-mole.
Now, this could have been mildly enjoyable if Dian hadn’t been looming over the proceedings like an anxious referee. Trying to lighten the mood, I told the nurse, “Careful now — if you break through, I might take out a ceiling tile.”
The nurses exchanged unamused looks and backed out of the game, handing me a towel and told me to wipe myself off. (I still don’t know why they couldn’t have just wiped me down — they had already been, shall we say, hands on.)
Hours later the doctor returned, made a phone call, and decided, “We’ll go with the industrial-strength model.” A stiffer catheter was installed and a stylish leg-bag attached, because nothing says sexy like carrying your own pee purse.
A few days later my urologist yanked out the gear, did another cystoscopy, and discovered scar tissue had been clogging up the works. He cleaned it out, and at long last — the waters were back in motion.
Moral of the story? Respect your plumbing. And if someone ever comes at you with lube and a flexible tube, just hope your spouse isn’t in the room with front-row seats.
