Peeing, Part 3

This winter, 2008-09, has been a piece of crap up our way. Winter showed up right after Thanksgiving, sat down and made itself comfy, and has not let up. In Menomonie, we have not had any horrible snow events, only one over three inches, but we have had ten or eleven snows of up to two inches. One or two laid ice down on sidewalks that has not come off in several weeks, so walking sucks. And it has been colder than Toby's ass: half of January mornings have been below zero F.

My first surgery was December 9. It was snowing in the predawn dark when I drove to Eau Claire (Wendy was there, but I needed the feeling of control). Luther Hospital has these pre-surgery gowns that they blow warm air into, which are really sweet. I got all tubed up and waited. This was the day that Gov. Blagojewicz got busted, so the pre-surg TV had lots to watch.

My one-hour procedure took about two hours. It seems that my 2-inch stone was over 3 inches, and was resistant to the little tools they could send up the tube in my penis. The ultrasound. The laser. The tiny miners with pickaxes. I was mercifully well gone when this was going on. The doctor showed Wendy a tube full of rubble that had been my bladder stone. My best estimate of the size of this thing is maybe a small dinner roll, or an average lemon.

I went home with my first-ever catheter and bag. I was off work for a couple days, and went to see the doctor on Thursday, two days after the surgery. He removed the catheter, which showed me how easy it is to remove them, and althought I was still passing some blood, we headed for home.

Something wasn't quite right. I couldn't get urine to pass, bloody or not, and I was pushing fluids as ordered, and something had to give. I went to Urgent Care at our local clinic and got a catheter re-inserted. This involved more ladies (medical staff) mucking with my penis, and again any joy of that was wiped out by fear an concern for what was wrong.

I began to grow used to the bag. There was the leg bag, good only for a couple hours but discreet under the pants leg. I could walk the dog. No, there was no freezing even in the bitter cold. There was the night bag, which hung neatly on the stand next to my recliner. Don't have to pee, just glance at the bag.

Sunday, I removed the catheter myself. Maybe I'd be okay and be ready for work on Monday.
As it turned out, not so. I couldn't pee. And by the time I figured this out, we missed Urgent Care by half an hour and had to go to Emergency to have yet another catheter installed. Yes, more ladies mucking with my penis, and yes, fear still in control.

Word of these sad developments led the fine folks from the urologist to move my second procedure up from Jan. 16 to D ec. 19. The idea was that the enlarged prostate was not allowing post-surgical debris to make it to the mouth of the urethra.

In the meantime, I worked for several days wearing the leg bag. Instead of requesting a "potty break," I would ask for a "bag break," and go "tap off a little." As discomfiting a notion as catheterization is, the reality is that it's not the worst way to go and that there's some convenience involved. Arriving home, I'd switch into the "night bag," and I could see when it was necessary to drain it.